No Union More Profound than Marriage
by GodIsGayQueenB
Summary: Payton Hobart always knew he was going to be president someday. But it's what he does while he's in office that will make his name go down in history. Meet the man behind making gay marriage legal in all fifty states of the United States of America. Rated PG-13. PaytonxOC. Past PaytonxRiver, PaytonxAlice, and PaytonxOC. Set over several years. Originally on Wattpad.
1. Article I Section I—The Mask

I didn't always think of River, but when I did it was during economic meetings.

Probably the most arduous of tasks I had to juggle as President of the United States of America was our economic income and market. It was a bore, really, and not because I hated economics. In fact, they interested me. But the problem was that the statistics never changed. Every report gave me the same numbers, the same stipend. And when, once in a blue moon, that stipend dipped a point-zero-one percent, I would lift my head, a glimmer of interest dancing in my eyes. Inside, I was jumping up-and-down with excitement—but I would never tell anyone that. As the face of America, I must keep a powerful and controlled facade.

". . . imports are increasing our economy by two percent, while exports give us an extra sum of five . . . "

I tried to contain a sigh. From across the table, James Sullivan gave me an imperceptible look to anyone but me. I could hear his disapproval in my mind, clear as day: _Concentrate on the presentation, Hobart, you're president!_ But who would want to dedicate their life to this? A sociopath, that's who.

I gave an indistinguishable wince. Perhaps I should've pursued economics wholly. As a sociopath myself, it would've suited me.

"Don't say that."

The sound of my monotonous chief economics advisor faded away, replaced by the familiar voice. I turned my head ever so slightly to see my old friend.

"Don't say that about yourself," River repeated, leaning casually on the side wall. "It's not true."

I let nothing show in my expression or body language that would give even the slightest hint he was there to the others in the room. Another thing I could not express as President: my mental stability.

"Oh, come on. Your mind is just fine."

It wasn't. I'd done the research. I may not be a doctor, but I'm not an idiot, either.

River frowned. "Payton, everything about you is fine. You're not a sociopath, you're not mentally impaired . . . everything about you is amazing."

I couldn't help it: my left eye twitched.

" . . . countries such as Great Britain, China, and Russia are increasing imports of petroleum . . . " the advisor droned on.

I closed my eyes once, briefly, before sitting up straight once more and nodding vigorously, as if I were clinging to every word.

"I'll see you later, Payton." River turned to the door, but looked back. "I miss you."

I closed my eyes and tightened my jaw to hold back the wave of emotion that followed.

* * *

"Sir? Mr. Hobart, here are your reports for today."

I took the monstrous pile of papers without complaint. "Thank you, Klein. You may go."

I didn't wait to see him leave. I simply bent over my work and began to write.

An hour later I was still scribbling intently. I only stopped when I heard a soft knock on my door.

"Come in," I said, my eyes examining my paper for any error.

The door opened. "Payton?" came a soft voice.

I looked up. Standing before me, shrouded in the light coming from the hallway outside, was my wife: Penelope Hobart, formally Penelope Singh. She was a tall and severe-looking woman, yet also softhearted and kind. She had high cheekbones, a pointy chin, and thin lips. A proud, stubborn air surrounded her, and her dark, sparkling eyes seemed to drag out every one of your dirty secrets.

"Payton," she repeated, stepping further into my office. "I— "

"What have I told you, Penelope, about crossing the line?"

I pointed at the blue tape on the floor about five feet from my desk. Penelope, whose big toe was just barely hovering over the line, stepped back with a grumpy look on her face.

"Penelope, we've talked about this," I told her, setting down my pen and leaning forward to show her that she was of my upmost concern. It was psychology rule number one: always act like the person you are talking to is the most important thing in the room. "I need my space when I work, and when anyone, even you, gets in that space, it interrupts my concentration."

"I—I was just— " she stammered.

"I know you mean well," I said sincerely, "but you have to follow the rules I set in place, just like everyone else at the office. I made those rules for a reason, and just because you're my wife doesn't mean you should get any special treatment."

"But— "

"I'm sorry, Penelope, but the answer is no." I looked at her with the sympathy any good husband would give her in this situation. "It would be unfair to my colleagues. Besides, I need you to do something for me."

Penelope stared. A vein on her forehead popped. Her left eye had a bad twitch. But she sighed. "What is it?"

I could tell she was upset. Nevertheless, I picked up a large stack of finished papers and handed them to her.

"Please bring these to their respective owners," I said. "Their names are on the top left corners. And Penelope," I called as she turned to leave, "I apologize if you feel that I am too strict on you, but know that you're hard work as First Lady is truly appreciated."

Penelope huffed as she stalked out of the room.

* * *

When five o'clock came, I left the White House to grab my daily sandwich from the shop a few blocks away. As always, I was met by reporters. They'd seemed to have memorized my schedule.

"President Hobart, what will your next move be to recover from the Subprime Mortgage Scandal?"

"Sir, what do you plan to do in retaliation for the 9/11 attacks?"

"Is the government any closer to catching Osama Bin Laden?"

I answered a few, then shook them off. Sliding into the limousine waiting for me, I hid behind the tinted windows.

Moments later, my best senior advisor joined me. He collapsed into his seat as my chauffeur drove off.

"Afternoon, Raymond." I said in greeting.

He grunted. "Those press are getting worse by the day. Have they memorized your schedule?"

I nodded. "Absolutely."

Raymond raised his brows. "And you're not going to do anything about it?"

I stared at him with barely disguised horror. "What? Of course not! The people need to feel as if their president is open to answer their questions at any given time."

"You're weird sometimes, Hobart." Raymond leaned forward dramatically. "Your approval ratings are off the chart. Take a knee on this one! The public isn't going to flip if you dismiss a few mere paparazzi."

"And that proves my point even more," I argued. "I cannot treat reporters as _mere_, just like I can't treat the people as _mere_. _That's_ why I have such a high approval rating, and I'm not going to go back on it."

Raymond leaned back. "Whatever you say. . . . "

While we had been talking, our chauffeur had been driving, maneuvering through the rush hour traffic. Finally, we pulled up next to the Potbelly Sandwich Shop.

"Thirty minutes boss," he told me as I reached for the door.

I nodded and stepped out.

I liked to present myself as a normal man sometimes. It was psychology rule number two: people tend to respect those who look and act like them. And since I couldn't look like the entire population of the United States of America, I did my best to act like one of them.

We waited in line at the counter. As usual, business was booming. You'd be surprised by how many people could make up excuses just to get a glimpse of the president.

When we got to the register, the man behind it grinned. "Mr. Hobart! Mr. Raymond! Welcome back!"

"Hello, Chip," I said fondly. Chip worked here nine hours a day, six days a week. I, being a regular, had grown on him, and vice-versa. I actually missed him on Sundays.

"The usual, I presume?" he asked.

I nodded.

Raymond said, "Yes, thank you."

We waited in silence for our food to be made. Soon, we had two meals: a Turkey Club for me, and a Mediterranean Salad with fat-free Vinaigrette dressing for Raymond.

We thanked the workers and headed to our regular seats in the back which, by an unspoken rule, were left empty for us. Once in a blue moon, an oblivious tourist would claim our seats, but then a costumer would jump to their feet and announce that we may have their table, almost knocking their chair over in excitement.

There was no such drama today. We sat at our table and engaged in conversation.

Another unspoken rule: never talk about the office at Potbelly's. For one thing, a lot of the information was classified, and for another, it ruined the whole point. By eating here, I was presenting myself as a normal person; talking about official government business would not do well for that image.

"So, how is Penelope?" Raymond asked, taking a bite of his salad.

I furrowed my brows. My sandwich lay untouched on my plate. "Why?"

He shrugged. "She's been acting a little strange lately. I've been wondering if something happened."

"I can assure you, nothing of the sort is true. Penelope is just fine."

I knew I sounded defensive, but I couldn't help it. Penelope _had_ been acting strange lately and, as much as I wanted to think I was wrong, I had a feeling I was the cause of it.

"Besides," I continued, "if there is anything wrong, we will work it out. That's what couples do, right? I'll—_We'll_ fix it, whatever it is."

Raymond peered at me through his glasses, munching on his salad. "Okay."

I suppressed a sigh. Raymond was highly intelligent, something that came in the job description of being one of my senior advisors, but he could be so _blunt_ at times. "Okay."

We lapsed into silence. I stared at for a bit longer, trying to think of what else to say, but nothing came to me. Finally, I picked up my sandwich and began to eat.

* * *

After dinner, we returned to the office. On my desk were some more papers and a note. I looked at the latter first: _German president Joachim Gauck to call 6:00p.m._

I sighed and tucked it away. The amount of papers on my desk were enough to keep me up until three in the morning, at least. Add a call to that, and sleep was looking dubious.

I looked at the clock; I had ten minutes. I would hardly be able to read a paragraph of the stacks of documents on my desk, much less finish a paper. Instead, I reached into a drawer, took out a file labeled 'Germany', and waited.

Exactly ten minutes later, the phone rang. I answered. "Payton Hobart, President of the United States of America . . . "

* * *

For most people, the weekend was a glorious time. But for the President, there wasn't a single moment of rest.

I flew to Germany from Friday to Sunday to discuss things with the German President, a three-day-long trip that wasn't worth it. On Sunday evening, we had yet to come to a conclusion that satisfied the both of us. I flew back to America without a signature.

When I landed, I was met with an angry face.

"Where have you been?" Penelope growled, her arms crossed.

I blinked. "I was sure one of my advisors would let you know. . . . "

She scoffed. Then, with a wary glance at the crowd gathered and the reporters covering my return, she looped an arm through mine and strode with me to my limousine, a fake smile donning her face. The reporters went crazy, snapping picture after picture. The crowd whooped and cheered.

"I don't want _them_ to tell me, I want _you_," she said through her teeth. "You can't just leave without telling me, your _wife_, where you're going, and expect some random advisor to let me know!"

Where was this coming from? "I'm sorry Penelope, but as president I can't always— "

"No," she interrupted. "No more excuses. I have tried to be patient. I have dealt with all your flaws. I helped you achieve your dream. But despite that, despite everything I have done for you, I still feel unneeded."

"You're not un— "

"But it was you who made me feel that way, Payton! But you were oblivious. You cast such a big shadow, I faded into the background. Everyone loved you. Everyone adored you. But they didn't care about me."

Her dark eyes found mine. "I thought I didn't care about them, either. I thought that as long as you put me first, as long as you needed me, I would be okay." Her expression darkened. "But I was wrong. You don't need me, and you never will."

We stopped, fully facing each other in the middle of the landing strip. "What are you saying?" I asked, dreading the answer.

She gave me a flat, remorseless look. "I'm saying I want a divorce."

I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut. I gaped, staring, and for the first time in a long while, my mind was blank. It was as if my brain had decided to take a vacation and was tanning on a beach in California.

At last, I was able to choke out, "That—that's not true! I do care about you, and I do need you!"

The crowd seemed to have noticed that something was wrong. At their distance, they couldn't hear us, but they hushed all the same. Meanwhile, the flashing camera lights increased; the reporters were practically buzzing with excitement.

Penelope lifted her chin. "You deny it, but deep down, you know I'm right."

I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped. Unbidden, the image of River swam hazily in my mind.

Before I could say another word, she turned and left, her head held high, walking confidently down the landing strip, like a model on the runway.

* * *

The news of Penelope's and my divorce spread like wildfire, so fast that by the time I got back to the White House that very same day, the whole office was gossiping about it.

Everywhere I went, stares followed me. Some were sympathetic, others curious, and others downright accusing. The latter mostly came from the reporters, whom accosted me at the first chance they got. I no longer had an easy way out of the White House for my five o'clock sandwich at Potbelly's.

"Mr. Hobart, Mr. Hobart!" they cried as soon as I strode out the doors, wearing dark shades to cover my eyes.

Surrounded, I was forced to stop. Immediately, a cascade of questions fell upon me.

"Mr. Hobart, what was it that made your wife leave?" one reporter asked, waving a microphone in my face.

"What do you think you'll do without her?" another one shouted.

"Do you think you're a bad husband?" a third cried.

I couldn't help it. "I'm not a bad husband!" I protested.

Encouraged by my response, they raised their voices. "Mr. Hobart, how do you feel about her now? Do you think you'll ever remarry? Who will replace her as first lady?"

Finally, the Secret Service came to my aid. They were able to wrestle their way through the crowd. But as I hid behind the tinted windows of my limousine, I wondered what the reporters would do if I told them I still yearned for some random, high school nobody.

* * *

Raymond didn't join me for Potbelly's on that Monday. He claimed he had some "important business to attend to", but I knew what it really was: he didn't want to be cast in a bad light.

I waited in the line of Potbelly's alone. When I got to the register, I was greeted by an unfamiliar face.

"Hello, Mr. Hobart. What can I get you today?"

I furrowed my brows. "Where's Chip?"

The lady behind the register paused. "What, that annoying kid with the hat? He's sick today."

My spirits plummeted. I don't know why the news hit me as hard as it did, but I realized Chip meant more to me than I thought he had. He was certainly better than this bland, expressionless, and frankly rude lady.

"What do you want?" she repeated impatiently, seeming to be bored out of her mind.

"Um . . . " I looked at the menu. In a small voice, I said, "I'll take some Chili soup. And an Oatmeal Chocolate Chip cookie, please? Thanks." The last part was barely audible.

The lady bustled off. She returned a little while later with my order and, with my food held tightly in my arms, I started to head to my usual table out of habit—but it was occupied.

Helplessly, I looked around. Every table was full. Nobody stood and offered me a seat. They were all too busy whispering, gossiping about the latest juicy drama: my own.

Gulping, I turned and left the shop.

For a while, I walked aimlessly. People passed in a blur around me. The chili burned my hands. I finally stopped at a park, slumping in a bench and slowly opening my soup.

It was at that moment that I realized I had forgotten a spoon.

I stared at my soup blankly, unsure of what to do. I half wished River would appear and give me a hallucinated spoon. Would I be able to eat with that? Likely not.

I put the cover back on my paper soup bowl and set it aside. I then started nibbling mindlessly on my cookie, lost in thought.

Penelope left me. That was it: the sad, pitiful truth. And now that I was without her, I realized how much I needed her. Who would distribute my reports now?

But more than that, I realized how much I would miss her. I would miss her smile, her energy, even her stubbornness. I would miss the way she could read people with a single glance, how she could hook you in and never let you go, and the proud look she always wore. I would miss her, and everything about her.

My phone rang. Setting my cookie and thoughts aside, I looked at the number: it was Raymond.

"Approval ratings are down by seven percent," he told me, his voice heavy. "You've lost your lead of a ninety-five percent in presidential history, but it can easily be brought back. You're at eighty-eight right now. What do you want to do about it?"

I didn't reply right away. Again, my mind was blank. It looked like my brain wasn't going to come home from California for another day, at least. "Uh . . . "

"Did you just say 'uh'?" The disbelief in Raymond's tone was unreal. "Payton, I say this to you as a friend—are you okay?"

Raymond was not my friend. Raymond had never been my friend. But nevertheless, I gathered my wits and said, "Thank you, but I'm fine. I was just distracted, that's all. Now, about my approval ratings . . . "

* * *

Penelope moved out in the next week.

She changed her name the next.

The grand halls of the White House seemed empty without her. While there were plenty of servants and staff running around to tend to their various tasks, they felt far and distant, as if I knew a secret they did not (which, actually, was true—as President I had to know a lot of secret government work). Penelope and I had had no kids, no pets—nothing but ourselves. The fact that I'd lost my one of my few, true companions outside of work hit me harder than I thought it would.

Sure, I had my old high school friends, but we'd drifted apart over time. McAfee had found a beautiful girlfriend and now worked as a representative of Montana. Infinity had disappeared—she had started a new life in Rome. Skye had become an activist. Alice, my ex-girlfriend, had run off with a new boyfriend. The only person I glimpsed at all was James, but as he was only an assistant to my communications senior advisor, I rarely saw him.

River had a mouthful to say on the subject of my divorce. "She doesn't know what she's missing. I mean, I know _I'd_ marry you in a heartbeat if I wasn't, you know, dead. And once I did marry you, I would never let you go. I mean, you would have to pry my cold, dead hands off you before you could even _think_ about leaving the house— "

It was infuriating, yet also slightly endearing. Of course, therein remained the problem of his death years ago. He was just a hallucination.

Now, I sat at my desk, filling out report after report. It had become such a habit to do this that, by now, I could let my mind wander as my pen scribbled away.

Soon, a knock on the door interrupted my progress. I lifted my head. "Come in."

It was Raymond. I felt a twinge of disappointment in my chest—I was half hoping it was Penelope. "What is it?" I asked.

"Turn on the TV," was all he said.

I did.

"—WJLA reporting that Osama Bin Laden, leader of the terrorist group al-Qaeda and perpetuator behind the devastating attacks on the Twin Towers, was killed by US Special Forces in Pakistan this afternoon. The operation—which lasted forty minutes—was made by twenty-five Navy Seals, one of whom is here for comment."

Raymond muted the TV and grinned. "Approval ratings are up by four percent."

I smiled. "That's great. That's really, really great."

Raymond frowned at my tone. "You're not still down about Penelope?" he asked.

I sighed. "Of course I am. I cared about her."

He shook his head. "You've got to let her go. Look at the bright side: now you'll be able to focus even more of your efforts on being the best president America has ever seen!"

With Penelope, I _was_ able to focus on being the best president America had ever seen. Without her, I was even more distracted. I decided not to tell him that, though.

"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Raymond."

He smiled and left, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Years passed.

My approval ratings were again off the charts. Reporters no longer swarmed as I left the building. Five o'clock dinner went on as usual. Chip was back and healthier than he'd ever been before. And yet still, life for me felt . . . off.

It had been months since I'd last seen Penelope. River was appearing more and more often. Now, when I entered the meeting room for an economic review, he was already there, waiting for me.

As I sat at my desk, taking a call, Raymond entered. He had an uncharacteristically anxious look on his face, tinged with annoyance and disapproval. I knew at once it must be important.

"I'm sorry," I told Sweden's Prime Minister, "could you hold for a moment? I need to discuss some urgent matters with my advisor. . . . It will only be a moment, I promise. Yes. Thank you."

I set down the phone. "What is it, Raymond?"

He bit his lip. "Turn on the TV."

I did. Raymond connected a few cables to it, and the television flickered on to a recording of WJLA, the official news station of Washington.

"Gabriel Fernandez, an eight-year-old boy, was murdered by his mother and her boyfriend under suspicion for being gay. Sam Ford with the story."

The camera switched to show a friendly-looking black man. He looked like someone who smiled a lot, but he wasn't smiling now. "Thank you, Leon. Gabriel Fernandez, and innocent boy, died in the hospital yesterday after suffering endless abuse from his mother and her boyfriend. At their hands he was beat, bit, whipped, burned, starved, and a whole realm of other horrors. He was found, gagged and bound, in a cubby closet with severe, blunt-force trauma to the head. Unfortunately, he died of the wound in the hospital.

"Possibly the most shocking and horrendous part of this report was the fact that all this was done because his mother suspected he was a homosexual. Jennifer Garcia, Gabriel's first-grade teacher, says she reported signs of abuse on numerous occasions, but no one helped."

The camera switched to a woman. _Jennifer Garcia, Gabriel's first-grade teacher_, read the caption. "It's just horrible," she sobbed, tears running down her cheeks in streams. "I can't get the picture of him out of my head. He was such a sweet kid. He would always help me when I needed it. I can't believe they didn't take that kid away from them. Why didn't they get him away from them?"

The camera slid back to the reporter, Ford. "The mother and her boyfriend now await trial, where they are facing life in prison or worse. Leon, back to you."

Leon's face appeared back in the frame. "Thank you, Sam. The case is being treated as the worst child abuse story of the decade. No doubt many new laws will be made to protect future children. But what will President Hobart do?"

The recording stopped there, but I continued staring at the TV in horror.

"News all around the country is calling to you," Raymond said. "You'll have to give a statement. Poor kid, right?"

I nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Anyway, set the IRS documents aside for now," he continued. "I have a feeling this will blow up. And with the whole homosexual business, Liberals will be furious."

I nodded again. "Thank you."

Raymond left, leaving me sitting, frozen, at my desk. I felt detached. Pieces of the news report kept drifting through my mind.

_" . . . all this was done because his mother suspected he was a homosexual. . . . Jennifer Garcia, Gabriel's first-grade teacher, reported signs of abuse on numerous occasions, but no one helped. . . . But what will president Hobart do?"_

I stood and started to pace. _"But what will president Hobart do?" _I didn't know any more than they did.

"You could tell them about me," said a voice.

I groaned. Whipping around, I leveled River with an accusing stare. "Go away."

He just smiled.

I sighed. "You really think I should?" I asked, running a hand through my hair anxiously.

His smile widened. "Oh, definitely. Could you imagine the public's reactions? Granted, your approval ratings would probably go down— "

"What? Why?"

"Homophobes, of course! But you'd go down in history as the first gay President of the United States of America!"

I shook my head. "No. If I'm going to run this country, I will run fairly. I will not use my sexuality as a way to attract more voters."

River's eyes sparkled. "There's the Payton I loved."

I turned away from him. _Loved_, not love. _"But what will president Hobart do?"_

Fresh tears slid down my cheeks.


	2. Article I Section II—The Man

"Mr. Hobart, if you could just sign here . . . "

I took the pen, but my hand hovered over the paper uncertainly. I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to sign.

"Payton," Penelope told me, "sign."

I knew we were separated. But this would make it official. I didn't want it to be official.

"Payton— " Penelope began, a hint of warning in her tone.

"Alright." I set the pen to the divorce papers and signed my name: Payton Hobart. Next to mine, Penelope had already signed hers: Penelope Singh. It was over.

Our divorce attorney collected the papers with a smile. "Thank you. You are free to go."

I nodded. Penelope got to her feet. I followed suit.

"Thank you," I said to the attorney before I left.

When I got into my limousine, I didn't look back, just like I hadn't with Alice.

Why didn't I look back?

"Sir?"

I started. I was at my desk, papers sprawled across it haphazardly, staring at nothing. Kelly Klein stood before me, his brows knitted with concern.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked.

I groaned, pinching the corners of my eyes. "I . . . yeah. Just didn't get much sleep last night." I looked up, squinting in the light at Klein's dark outline. "Could I get some coffee?"

He nodded. "They refilled the machine this morning." He frowned. "Don't you remember?"

I glanced at the coffee machine in the corner of my office. The green light was, indeed, on, indicating that it was full. "Uh . . . yeah. I'll get that in a bit. What did you come in here for, Klein?"

"Just some bills," he said, dropping a small stack of papers onto my desk.

"Thank you," I said. "You may go."

Klein gave me one last worried look before he left.

I waited for his footsteps to fade away before I sighed, slumping in my chair. Penelope had officially divorced me months ago. Why was I still stuck in the past?

What I'd told Klein was the truth: I _hadn't _slept well the night before, but it wasn't because I was doing paperwork. The truth was, I'd been kept up by River.

River had decided to give me a lecture on how to properly run the country. _As if he knows better than I, _I thought savagely.

"You've gotta show them your vulnerable side," he'd advised me. "Those dinners you have with Raymond? They don't show the people who you are. You have to make them _feel_ like you're one of them, not just see it." He fixed me with an intense stare. "You have to make them see what I saw."

I'd swallowed and turned away, unable to look at his stupidly perfect brown eyes anymore. The worst part was that, deep down, I thought he might be right. Stupid, perfect, beautiful River with his irritating intelligence.

Presently, I stood and grabbed myself a cup of black coffee. I gulped it down, reveling in the bitter taste.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

"Mr. Hobart?"

I looked up. Then I grinned. "Sampson!"

Thomas Sampson, my Vice President, strode into my office, grinning. I stood, my spirits immediately lifted. Sampson had a way of doing that.

He smiled at me through his square glasses. Sampson was a tall, wide, and dark-haired man. His eyes were brown and his lips thin. He was Asian-American, but you wouldn't be able to tell that just by looking at him. The only indication of his nationality was his slightly tanned skin, which was so light it could be mistaken as the remnants of a Florida vacation.

"How are you, sir?" he asked, outstretching a hand for me to shake.

"Good." I grasped his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "I thought you weren't supposed to return until tomorrow."

"Well, the weather worked with us." He chuckled. "How have things been in America?"

Quickly, I gave him a brief summary of the political events of the last few weeks.

He shook his head. "I missed most of that. My hotel had terrible wifi, you would not believe— "

"I can send you a file of the full story, if you would like— "

"Yes, please, thank you."

I smiled, making a mental note. "So how was your trip? I've always wanted to go to Poland."

Instead of answering, he made a move toward the door. "I'm sorry, but I really should get to work, since I missed so much."

"Oh." My spirits sank. "Of course."

"Poland was really amazing, though. I could tell you more about it later, if you want."

"No, I wouldn't want to bother you," I told him. "But thank you."

He smiled. "All right. Well, goodbye, Mr. Hobart."

I gave him a strained smile and a nod. "Bye."

As soon as the door closed behind him, I cringed. That was one hell of an awkward conversation.

* * *

Five o'clock dinner with Raymond was subdued. Honestly, I was thankful.

When we got back to the White House, I gathered up my papers from my office, left a note telling people where I was, and then immediately headed to my master bedroom. I deposited my papers on a table and collapsed on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"I know what you're thinking, Payton," said a familiar voice.

I glared. "Go away."

River, of course, didn't listen. "You feel like your life is spiraling out of control. Your friends abandoned you, your wife divorced you, and you're still having visions of your dead high-school boyfriend. And yet, you can't find it in you to cry." River studied me. "You're afraid."

I jumped to my feet with a snarl. "And you don't actually exist," I shot back. "So go away!"

I turned my back on him. There was a long silence. For a glorious moment, I thought he had gone, but then he said, "You think you're a sociopath."

"I don't think it, I know it!"

River, again, didn't immediately reply. At last, he said in a soft voice, "You're not a sociopath, Payton."

"Yes I am. You just don't see it because you think I'm perfect." I crossed the room and collapsed into a chair, sinking low into the cushions. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rubbed my temples.

"I don't think you're perfect."

I laughed darkly, dropping my hands and opening my eyes. "Thanks. I feel so much better!"

"I don't think you're perfect," River repeated, "but I know that with your flaws, you're perfectly _you_."

I snorted. "That was beyond the cheesiest thing you've ever said to me."

"You're not a sociopath, Payton."

"How would you know?"

"I'm in your head."

"So? A sociopath wouldn't admit that he was a sociopath," I retorted.

"Back in New York, you saw the full support of your friends. They didn't believe you were a sociopath— "

"AND I ALSO SAID I WOULD NEVER BE A SOCIOPATH AGAIN, BUT HERE I AM!"

I didn't know where the sudden burst of anger came from. All I knew was that I was suddenly on my feet, glaring daggers at the hallucinated figure of River Barkley, feeling the obscene urge to throw something.

"I thought a lot of things in the past! I thought I would go to Harvard! I thought my friends and I would always be together! I thought Penelope would never think about divorcing me! I thought that, one day, magically, you would reappear, alive and whole! But news flash: none of that came true!"

I broke off there, breathing heavily. All my bitter thoughts and resentments swarmed me, making me almost dizzy.

I was just about to open my mouth to yell some more when River came to the rescue. He strode forward, seized my shoulder, and captured my gaze with his. "Control yourself, Payton. There are people just outside the door."

For some reason, this helped me. I took several deep breaths. "Thanks. I—I'm better now."

River released my shoulder.

I turned away, my head hanging in shame. "I—I just don't know what to do. I want to help people. But I don't know how to do that."

There was a pause. "Well, what do the people want?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I—I'm not sure. What do you think?"

I turned to look at him, but he was gone.

* * *

Raymond missed five o'clock dinner.

Chip greeted me with his usual grin at Potbelly's, but when he saw my expression, his smile faded.

"You okay, bud?" he asked, real worry in his eyes.

I nodded. "Yeah . . . just stressed about work. It's been a busy few weeks."

I tried for a smile, but I failed miserably. Chip narrowed his eyes.

"Okay . . . the usual, then?"

I ran an eye over the menu. "You know what, Chip? I'll take something different."

He raised his brows in shock. "And what would that be?"

"Er . . . surprise me."

He stared at me for a long while. Then, finally, he said, "Does one pizza sandwich-mac pair and an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie with a chocolate-topped shake sound good to you?"

I nodded. "Perfect."

"Okay." He pressed a few buttons, then reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and swiped his card before I could so much as blink.

"Hey!" I protested, but he was already untying his apron.

"Jackie, can you cover me for a bit?" he called over his shoulder. "Yeah, it'll only be for a second. . . . Thanks so much, Jackie."

Before I could warn him not to be stupid, he turned his back on me and went to grab my order. When he returned, he gestured for me to follow, a determined look in his eyes that dared me to disobey him.

I smartly decided to follow him without comment.

My usual table was (thankfully) unoccupied, and he sat down, gesturing for me to do the same. As soon as I had, he leaned forward and demanded, "Spill."

I sighed. "I can't tell you about work. It's government business."

Chip waved me off. "I don't care about that. I care about _you_. What's wrong?"

"Oh, let's think." I leveled him with a cold stare. "Maybe, my wife divorced me?"

Chip raised his brows skeptically. "No. It's much deeper than that."

I snorted. "And what makes you think that?"

Chip leaned back in his chair. "That was months ago, Payton. Things like that don't cause all this" —he made a sweeping gesture in the air— "at least not alone. So tell me. What's wrong? Trust me, I may be able to help."

This, far from reassuring me, gave me the strong urge to laugh. What could joking, optimistic, insufferably cheerful Chip do to help me?

Chip sighed. "You know, most people don't know this about me, but I actually used to be a therapist."

I stared in surprise. "You . . . a therapist? Then what are you doing here?"

"Well, I suppose the main reason is me." He gave me a small smile. "I like to be optimistic at all times. I thought that being a therapist and making other people happy might be good for me, but then I realized all their sadness was rubbing off on me. So I quit."

"And you decided to work at a sandwich shop?"

He laughed. "I'll admit, I was not planning on working here. This was supposed to be a temporary job, you know, to keep me going until I found a better one. But then I realized I really like it here—the people, the location, everything. So, I stayed." He grinned. "I may be payed minimum wage, but it pays off. I get to make new friends." He winked at me.

I shook my head. "I could never do that."

He tilted his head in curiosity. "Why not?"

"From the day I turned seven years old, I knew I was going to be the President. I'm not one to change plans so easily." I thought back to my disastrous senior year of high-school.

Chip nodded. "So is that what's wrong? Did something not go to plan?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I guess? Not really. I suppose the problem is that I don't know what the next step of the plan is."

"Ah. You got lost." Chip nodded seriously. "Happens to the best of us. But you know the great thing about getting lost?"

"What?"

"You can always use a map."

I frowned, biting my lip. "So . . . you're saying that I just need a map?"

"Not in literal terms, but yes." Chip leaned forward, holding my gaze. "I need you to think for a moment. Close your eyes. Take several deep breaths. And ask yourself: _what is the question I need answered the most?"_

I didn't like it, but I did as he said. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of Potbelly Sandwich Shop air, and thought.

Soon, the answer—Or was it the question?—came to me.

"Well?" Chip asked, watching me expectantly. "Do you have your question?"

I nodded. "Yes. I do."

His face broke out in a grin. "Good. Now Payton, I need you to do whatever you need to do to answer that question, short of murder. Can you do that?"

I nodded again.

"Good. Now, I gotta get back to work." He reached out and patted my shoulder. "Good luck, Mr. Hobart."

With that, he strode off, leaving me with a free Potbelly's meal consisting of mostly chocolate and fat.

* * *

That night, I paced in my office incessantly.

Try as I might, I couldn't sit down. It was like I'd guzzled down one hundred ounces of caffeine in one sitting. One question bounced around in my brain, slamming into the hard bones of my skull repeatedly, demanding an answer.

_"Well, what do the people want?"_

River's words echoed through my head, but I didn't know the answer.

That was the problem Chip had made me realize. I didn't know what, exactly, the people wanted. I had to find out.

At my desk, I set a few documents aside and did some research. Instead of searching up 'popular policies' like I usually did, I searched 'protests nearby'. If I wanted to get an answer to my question, I needed to pretend to be one of the people.

Immediately, forty-eight million results popped up. I clicked on a promising link and read.

_Thousands march in protest for police brutality, _one article read.

Another was titled, _It's Time to Take Climate Change Seriously: What the Crisis Could Mean for the Future._

I read and read and read until my eyes grew so tired and heavy I could barely keep them open anymore. #BlackLivesMatter was on every page. Smaller, less frequent articles talked about women's rights, disabled rights, prejudice against Asians . . . but one caught my eye.

I clinked on the link titled _'March for Marriage' rally reflects steadfast opposition to gay marriage among evangelical Christians. _Leaning close, I read.

_This is it_, I thought when I finished.

I hated it. I hated it with every inch of my being, but I knew, deep down, that I'd been planning it all along. It was a move, one big political move that, strangely, would involve more emotion than politics. But I knew I had to do it. I'd been waiting too long.

What had River told me? _You have to make them see what I saw. _River had seen the good in me. He'd seen the human in me. And above all, he made me vulnerable, the only one who could.

It was why, when I learned Alice was leaving, I had let her go. I loved her, I really did, but she'd seen the side of me that I hated. She saw the politician in me, the sociopathy that would never go away, and she'd encouraged it. She _wanted_ me to be a cold, unfeeling politician.

But River was the opposite. He'd seen the humanity in me; the emotions, the vulnerability. And he brought those out.

_How did you get me to be vulnerable like that?_

_Because I see you._

I knew what the people wanted. And, no matter how much I hated it, I was going to give it to them.

* * *

I knocked on the door of the meeting room. "Raymond. May I speak with you?"

Raymond stopped what he was saying, raising his brows in surprise. I didn't usually come to him for help. "Er . . . is it important?" he asked, casting a glance at the other people in the room.

I nodded vigorously. "Very."

Raymond bit his lip, but he stood. "Carry on without me, I'll be back in a moment. . . . "

He followed me outside. Quickly, I searched for a more private place to talk. I settled for a narrow hallway lined with windows that lead to a few, less frequently used meeting rooms.

In the middle of the hall, I turned to Raymond. "I have a new political move," I told him. "I think it might be good to gain the public's approval."

Raymond looked flustered. "Really, Payton? You took me out of my meeting for this? Can't it wait?"

I shook my head. "No. If I want to implement this move, it can't wait."

"Why not?"

"The nation won't stop to wait for us, is why."

"The nation never stops to wait for us, Payton," Raymond countered. "What's different this time?"

I ran an anxious hand through my hair. "I think we've been focusing on the wrong thing. We've been so consumed with making this nation great, we've forgotten about the people living in it."

"Will you get to your point? I have a meeting to attend to."

I took a deep breath. "I think we need to concentrate more of our efforts on police brutality."

Raymond's eyes widened. "You . . . what?"

"The people are angry, Raymond," I told him. "Not only that, they're mourning. We need to do something to help them! We need to listen to what the people want!"

"Keep your voice down!" Raymond hissed, casting a wary around. "Payton, are you out of your mind? We can't go encouraging massive Liberal movements!"

"Why not?"

"Because that's not what your main goals as President are!"

I stared. "My goals as President entirely depend on me."

"And your promises to the people!" Raymond insisted. "You can't just suddenly decide to support Liberals— "

"Why not?" I retorted. "Why are so against this, Raymond?"

Raymond sighed, his tense limbs sagging. "I—I'm not, Payton. I really am. But politics are not about right and wrong. They're about implementing policies and building a strong face. You know this, Payton. I know you know this."

"People are dying, Raymond," I pleaded.

Raymond looked like he'd aged ten years. "I know. Good God, I know. But we can't do more than what we already are." He peered at me with eyes full of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Payton."

My heart sank. Raymond checked his watch.

"I've got to go back to my meeting," he said. "See you at dinner?"

I nodded as he left, feeling detached.

* * *

"I tried to help, I _tried_ to do something! Why won't anyone let me help?"

River watched me pace back-and-forth frantically, leaning casually against the wall and tracking my steps across the room. "Deep breaths, Payton," he said. "In and out."

I ignored him. "I thought that being President meant that I had the power to do something, to make a difference in this world! And the _one time_ I try to do something good, I'm told I can't do it _because_ I'm President!"

"Payton— "

"I can't help the people that need to be helped. Raymond's right. As President, I _have_ to be sociopathic."

River pushed himself off the wall and grabbed my arm, stopping me in my tracks. "You are _not_ a sociopath, Payton."

"But you heard Raymond— "

"Screw Raymond!" River snapped, taking me aback. River _never_ raised his voice. He leaned forward, his rich brown eyes boring into mine. "Raymond doesn't know what he's talking about," he said, lowering his voice.

"How would you know?" I snarled, ripping my arm out of his hand. "You're not a politician!"

"You're right," he said, taking a step back.

"Thank you," I bit, turning away.

"And that's all the more reason you should listen to me."

I rounded on him. "Really?"

"Yes." Despite my angry tone, his voice was calm and level. "I have the advantage of having an outsider's perspective."

I crossed my arms. "Fine, then. What deep wisdom do you wish to share?"

River regarded me with an expressionless look. "Payton, do you know what makes leaders go down in history?"

I nodded. "Of course I do, I've studied it again and again. It is usually a mixture of eloquent wording, a sense of being 'one of the people', and— "

"—and breaking the rules?"

My anger ebbed away as I realized the truth in his words.

"Think about it, Payton." River put his hands on my shoulders. "Every memorable leader in history was either a genocidal maniac or broke every rule there ever was. It's what sets them apart from the rest."

"So I have to break the rules," I said, licking my lips nervously.

River nodded. "Yes. Exactly. Raymond—he's afraid. He's followed the rules his whole life and it led him to success. He doesn't want to do anything that will jeopardize that, even if it will bring him more success than he already has. He doesn't realize that, of course. But you—you do."

"But what if I mess up?" I asked uncertainly. "What if I say the wrong thing? The people are like vultures. If I do something wrong— "

"You won't," River assured me. "You always say the right thing."

I shook my head and took a deliberate step back. "No. I don't. I've messed up so many things. I messed up things with Penelope, I messed up my relationships with my friends, I messed up with you." My voice broke. "What's to say I won't mess up now?"

River smiled. "Me."


	3. Article I Section III—The People

Many protests would take place outside the White House. Often times, they were small gatherings demanding tax reductions, higher teacher pay, and clean water. But today, on December thirteenth, thousands took to the streets.

It wasn't as if I wasn't expecting it. I'd read so many articles covering the topic, I knew it was only a matter of time.

_"Well, what do the people want?"_

It was with this question in mind that I marched out the White House doors to meet the roars of the crowd.

"People of the United States!" I cried, raising a microphone to my face with a gloved hand. "People! If I could have your attention, please!"

There were gasps from the crowd, then cheers. Of all the things the crowd had expected, me showing up was not one of them. Honestly, I was surprised, too.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the United States," I addressed the crowd, "you have bravely gathered here today to demand action against the plight of prejudiced police officers across this country. For this, I applaud you. It takes a great amount of courage to do what each of you are doing today, far more courage than I have myself."

The crowd cheered. Well, they never stopped cheering—there were so many of them that even a heartbeat of silence was impossible—but the yells got louder.

"The deaths of Michael Brown, Jr, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, and so many more were cruel" —the crowd cheered— "and unnecessary. They should not have died, no matter the circumstance. They were innocent. The only people at fault for their deaths are the officers who betrayed their country and allowed biased opinions of the African-American people to influence their actions."

The crowd roared its approval.

"The victims of police brutality committed no crimes but to have dark skin. This is intolerable. I cannot allow it, not as long as I am president.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I called, "it is time we break this endless stream of hate. It is time we broke the rules and stood up for what is right!

I paused to let crowed cheer before continuing, thinking of River.

"As your president, I promise I will do everything in my power to end this social tyranny. I will fight to establish better laws, better protection, and hire better men and women to protect our communities!"

The crowd cheered. The people brandishing protest signs raised them higher. Many read simply, _#BlackLivesMatter. _One said, _Am I next? _Another had _We want justice for all _written in thick, red font.

_I wish blacks and gays could get to know how it feels like to be free like me, _another read.

I don't know why, but the last one seemed to stick with me.

I struggled to retain my line of thought. "Um, today, I will walk among you. Please, uh, tell me any questions you have, ideas you want me to implement, or any other concerns. I want to know what you, the people, would like me to do, and I want to hear from you, only you, and directly from you, so that I may take proper action. Please, if you have anything you would like to say to me, come forth."

Immediately, the crowd surged toward me. "Er . . . one at a time please!" I cried into the microphone for all it was worth.

The rest of the day I spent answering questions, replying to comments, and making a list of concerns and ideas on my phone. Not even an hour went by before I had ten pages written on Microsoft Word.

From person to person I went, the crowd forming a line up to where I stood that stretched several blocks. I talked even after my voice became scratchy and hoarse from overuse.

"What laws will you write to protect us?" I was asked for the umpteenth time.

"How will you honor those who died?" Another question I had answered before.

"How will you sort the good police officers from the bad ones?" I gave the same answer I'd given to the last six hundred people.

At one point in time, I glanced up at the White House to see Raymond standing in the doorway. He was expressionless. I hoped that was a good sign.

_He's probably just shocked_, I told myself.

Still, I began to have second thoughts. When Raymond worried, I worried, because Raymond was nearly always right. What if this was a bad idea? What if, despite River's assurances that I was doing the right thing, I'd made another mistake?

_You're breaking the rules, Payton, _I thought. _That's what you need to do! _

_But River is just inside your head, _a snide voice argued.

_Anything he tells me is actually just me telling myself not to be an idiot, _I retorted.

But still, I worried.

* * *

"You are only slightly behind your work, Mr. Hobart. In the past month you were unable to take two calls and hold three meetings. Do you want to reschedule them?"

I frowned, thinking about it. I was in the short, monthly meeting that brought me up to speed on everything I missed. Only a few people were present; most didn't attend under the assumption that, if they missed anything important, they would be notified of it later.

The woman who'd addressed me—Lauren Hayes—was my Secretary of State. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and an expression that told me she'd just swallowed a lemon. She waited for my answer with her thin lips pursed and her arched eyebrows raised.

"I'm sorry, I am just trying to think of when. . . . " I thought about for a moment longer, then said, "Of course I'll reschedule them. The calls I will take next week. The meetings I can hold . . . the last week of the month."

Hayes shook her head. "You are supposed to travel to London that week."

"Oh. Then . . . how about the week before?"

Hayes gave me a curt nod and made a note on her clipboard.

I suppressed a sigh. While Lauren Hayes did her work excellently, I wished she were a bit more upbeat. According to her husband, she was much less coldhearted when she was at home. Looking at her now, I was skeptical.

"Mr. Hobart," said a new voice—Glen Jackson, the White House Chief of Staff, "you also never gave a statement on Gabriel Fernandez's death, are you ever going to do that?"

I blinked. Truth be told, I'd completely forgotten._ It's probably too late now,_ I thought. I was about to say no when I stopped myself. A hazy image of a protest sign swam in my mind: _I wish blacks and gays could get to know how it feels like to be free like me._

If I didn't give this statement, how could they?

"I will," I decided. "Just give me . . . a week, and I'll have a statement ready by then."

Lauren Hayes made another note on her clipboard. "Would you like one of your staff to write it for you?"

I shook my head. "No. I'll write it myself."

Hayes nodded. "Very well. That is all, sir."

* * *

Later, while I was writing the script, James found me in my office.

"Payton," he hissed from the doorway, glancing around nervously.

I looked up, frowning. "You can just come in."

James shook his head. "I'm not supposed to be here right now. I just wanted you to know: Alice is here."

I dropped my pen and jumped to my feet in shock. "You can't be serious."

James grinned.

"Oh, my God." I darted around my desk, hitting my side in the process and causing me to swear aggressively. "Oh, my God." I whipped around, casting a horrified look at my messy office. The shelf had a random, plastic Target bag on it! The Van Gogh painting was crooked! And my desk— "Oh, my God, my desk!" I raced toward it, frantically organizing the papers into neat piles. "James," I cried, "help me with this mess!"

James didn't move. He just stood in the doorway, knitting his brows. "What mess?"

"The mess, the mess! How can you not see it?" I waved a hand at the Target bag and painting. "Fix those! Please!"

Confused, James moved toward the shelf. Meanwhile, I shoved stacks of papers into the drawers of my desk.

Unfortunately, James didn't know what, exactly, I wanted him to fix on the shelf. "Why do you want me to move your plants?" he asked, a succulent in his hands.

"What?" I turned. "No! The Target bag, move the Target bag! And the . . . the picture . . . "

I trailed off, stunned by the sight of the figure in the doorway.

"Payton?" Alice Charles asked, moving into the room with a perplexed look. "What is this?"

"Um . . . " For one of the first times in my life, I didn't know what to say. "It . . . it's nothing. I . . . I just wasn't expecting . . . thought you were in Florida with your boyfriend," I muttered dumbly.

Alice's eyes widened. "My boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"You mean Jackie?"

I nodded, but didn't say anything.

Alice stared at me for a good ten seconds. Then she burst out laughing.

I blinked. "I don't—what's so funny?"

"You!" she said with a chuckle. "To think Jackie was my boyfriend— "

I furrowed my brows. "What do you mean?"

Alice shook her head disbelievingly. "Jackie isn't my boyfriend, Payton. _She_ is my cousin."

I stared. "She—what?"

"I went to Florida to see my cousin, not to live with a boyfriend," Alice scoffed. "Is that why you've been so cold with me these days?"

"These days?" James pipped up. "More like the last few years."

I resisted the urge to duck my head as I felt my cheeks redden. "Whose side are you on?" I mumbled.

James looked at me unsympathetically. "You brought this on yourself, Payton."

I snapped my head up to glare at him. "How was I supposed to know Jackie was her cousin?"

"I told you I was visiting her," Alice argued.

"No," I retorted, "you told me you were going to see Jackie."

"And you assumed Jackie was my boyfriend!"

I clenched my jaw to keep myself from shouting. If I were being honest with myself, I was angry more from embarrassment than anything. I turned my back on Alice instead. "Leave."

I couldn't see Alice's face, but I could hear the anger in her voice.

"Are you kidding me? Payton, I was visiting my cousin! I told you I was going to see Jackie! It was only your own idiocy that you automatically thought she was my boyfriend!"

"Well you could've been more specific," I snapped back, burning a hole in the wall in front of me.

"What is up with you?" Alice snapped. "I thought you would be pleased to see me! But instead you're yelling at me for seeing my cousin!"

_"I don't care about your cousin!"_ I yelled, whipping around to face her.

The expression on Alice's face was frightening. She moved suddenly and angrily, to yell or to slap me I didn't know, but James stepped between us. "It was a miscommunication, guys, that's all. Let's just—just calm down a bit."

Alice took a deep breath and stepped back, heeding his word. I didn't.

"Alice," I said, pushing past James roughly and stopping just inches before her. "Look—I'm sorry. I overreacted. But you at least could have contacted me."

Alice shook her head. "You were ignoring me, Payton. Why should I, when you made it clear you didn't want me to?"

I started to protest, but stopped. The memory of the last time I'd seen her swam hazily in my mind.

_"I'm going to visit Jackie," Alice told me on a gray afternoon. "In Florida. I don't know when I'll be back."_

_I felt my heart clench. "You won't stay to help me in my first few months in office?"_

_She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's an emergency."_

_I turned away to hide the irritation and—though I'd never admit it—betrayal on my face. "Jackie is very lucky."_

_Alice didn't reply._

_"I wish you safe travels," was the last thing I said before she left the room._

Now, looking back at the interaction, I realized her point.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "I— "

Alice regarded me with a cold look. "Talk to me when you've sorted things out," she said.

When she left, James followed.

* * *

Despite the disastrous meeting with Alice, I still managed to finish the script for my statement on Gabriel Fernandez's death.

_I must be going crazy, _I thought when I re-read the script for the fifteenth time.

_Crazier than you already are? _came a snide voice.

_This is what the people want, _River retorted. _He'll be fine. He's being brave._

_Brave is just another word for recklessly stupid._

"Are you ever going to show me your script, at least?" a new voice asked me, jokingly whining.

I looked up. It was Raymond, approaching me in the dark, narrow hallway backstage. "I'm afraid you'll have to find out with the others," I said, plastering a smile on my face. On the other side of the curtain, a crowd was cheering.

He sighed. "Just . . . don't make a stupid mistake. I'd hate for you to be involved in a political scandal."

Though his words were playful, my gut twisted. For the fiftieth time that day, I wondered if I was making the right choice in doing what I was about to do.

But it was too late to back out now. Dressed in a dark suit and blue tie, I took a deep breath before walking into the blinding spotlights onstage.

The crowd—made up of about seven hundred people—cheered as I appeared. Spotlights followed me on my way up to the podium. Despite my easy grin, horrible nerves pooled in my gut. This was, by far, the stupidest thing I'd ever done. I wondered how much I would regret this after. I pushed those thoughts away. I had to focus, or else I would make an even bigger fool out of myself.

I reached the podium. From within a pocket I withdrew my notes: a small stack of generic flashcards on which I had my speech written, word for word. With a deep breath, I began:

"On the twenty-second of March this year, an eight-year-old boy named Gabriel Fernandez was murdered in cold blood by his own mother, Pearl Fernandez, and her boyfriend, Isauro Aguirre. Before this, he faced severe abuse: he was beat, whipped, bit, burned with cigarettes, shot numerous times with a B.B. gun, starved, and fed cat litter and his own vomit. He was found gagged and bound in a cubby hold closet. He died of a blunt force trauma to the head in the hospital later that day.

"When news reports were tasked with describing the case, they called it 'the worst child abuse story of the decade'. I agree with this wholeheartedly. It is beyond words to describe what this child suffered through. And yet, his first-grade teacher, Jennifer Garcia, described him as a softhearted, kind individual. Despite the hardships he faced in his life, he still found the time to help her when she needed it."

The audience was completely silent. A few people already had tears in their eyes. "Gabriel was far more brave than the bravest soldier, far more selfless than the greatest hero, and a far better man than I will ever be. And at eight-years-old, he died all of those things: the bravest soldier, the greatest hero, and the best man.

"But Gabriel Fernandez should not have died. He never should have been treated the way he was. He should have grown old and well, and he should not have died with so many titles and honors. He should've died a normal man with all the best morals, and, more importantly, a family who loved him.

"But this life was taken from him, because his mother and her boyfriend thought he was gay."

I paused there, partly for effect, but mostly to give myself the chance to summon the courage to say the next part. The crowd, previously silent, started muttering.

"People have been discriminated against because of their sexual orientation and gender expression from the beginning of time. But they have also been celebrated. Some Native American tribes honored homosexuals because they believed they better understood both genders. The entire ancient kingdom of Greece expressed homosexuality and homosexual acts in almost everything: their art, their literature, and even their godly deities. In other words, it was not always considered a sin, or an act against God.

"Gabriel Fernandez was killed by people who thought that being gay was wrong. He was killed for something he couldn't change nor control, if it was true at all.

"For this reason, in honor of his memory, the belief that homosexuality is anything immoral or wrong must be abolished. Discrimination against the LGBT plus community must come to an end, because if it continues, crimes like this will only worsen.

"That is why I am here to take the first step."

The crowd applauded hesitantly. It sounded hopeful; one that recognized the somber air surrounding my speech, but still wished to celebrate the good. It gave me the confidence to continue as I came closer and closer to telling them the thing I dreaded.

"I, Payton Hobart, do support same-sex marriage, and I do support the rights of any LGBT individual here, in America, and in the world. I," —I had to raise my voice over the smattering applause— "as a politician, will work to abolish discrimination against the LGBT community. And I, your president," —I had to raise my voice even more or the loud cheering from the crowd— "will do everything in my power to legalize same-sex marriage in all fifty states of this country, the United States of America!"

The crowd erupted. There may have been a few hisses and boos, but if there were, they were drowned out by the screams and shouts and yells of excitement and joy issuing from the hundreds of people gathered to watch me give my speech.

"Thank you!" I shouted into the mic. "Thank you!"

I kept repeating the phrase until, at last, the crowd was quiet enough for me to speak again.

"And with that said, I would like to make an announcement."

The crowd muttered excitedly as they waited with bated breath. I gulped, my mind inexplicably blank. I suddenly became aware of how many people must be watching. Not just the few hundred people standing before me, but also the entire White House, as well as the millions of people watching at home. And soon, that number would expand throughout the US, to Europe, until the entire world knew. The thought terrified me.

I'd forgotten what I was supposed to say next. I looked down at my notes, but the words blurred together. I would have to improvise.

I looked up. "It—It has been a long time since minorities have gotten the spotlight they deserve. A person of a minority group being well-known is . . . incredible. They have to avoid far more obstacles than any white, straight male would ever have to face on the road to success."

The more I talked, the more I knew what to say. "But people of minorities, I have learned, tend to look up to those few people like them that found success as a way to encourage them to keep trying. They think, _She did it, why can't I?_ Their role models become the anchor point for their own success in life. And to some people, especially young people, these role models become almost as important to them as their own parents, maybe even more so for children like Gabriel Fernandez.

"I could be that role model. And I know that if there's any chance that I can be someone else's idol, it would be selfish of me not to say this.

"Therefore, I have to tell you about someone who was very special to me. His name was River Barkley."

The crowd whispered among themselves. I knew that they, at least, suspected what I was about to tell them.

"River started as my Mandarin tutor in high school," I said. Then I added, "I actually still suck at Mandarin," eliciting a few laughs. "No one can change that, I'm a lost cause. But River, he was patient. And very kind. He helped me, even when he couldn't help himself."

The emotion in my voice was true as I said this. I was reminded of River's previous words: _You're not a sociopath, Payton. _I was surprised to realize I was starting to believe him.

"River committed suicide while we were in our senior year. He shot himself in the head." I gulped. "I would know. I was there."

The crowd was deathly silent. Some were crying again.

"River and I were close, people knew this," I continued, fighting to keep my voice even. "But they didn't know just how close we were." I looked at the crowd, imagining that I was looking at each member in the eye. "I loved River," I said at last. "I loved him more than a friend. I loved him much more than that. So much more."

The crowd was frozen in shock, as if they could hardly believe what I was saying. They needed one more push, I realized.

"I like women," I said, "and I like men. That's my announcement."

If the crowd had erupted before, a bomb must've gone off onstage now. The screams and cries were deafening as they cheered and stomped their feet. Some screamed in shock and excitement, others booed and shook their fists. Some even took out mini rainbow flags from seemingly nowhere and started waving them in the air.

I gave my thanks and left the stage, my whole body trembling. That was the scariest thing I had ever done. Even now, in the safety of backstage, the blood roared in my ears, drowning out every other sound.

The crew stared at me in shock. A few congratulated me and patted me on the back, others glared. Either way, I wanted to retreat into my limousine and hide. At least my chauffeur never asked questions besides where I wanted to go.

On my way to my limousine, I was met by Raymond. I gave him an awkward smile. He gave me a weird look.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said.

My stomach dropped. "What? Why?"

He chewed his tongue. "I—You just shouldn't've. It wasn't a wise move."

Before I could again ask him why, he turned and left, his expensive shoes clicking on the hard floor with each step he took. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Strangely, I found myself praying:

_Please, please tell me this wasn't a mistake, _I begged.

_Please._


	4. Article I Section IV—The Response

The people had mixed reactions to me coming out.

Some were overjoyed. Yesterday, two teenage girls came up to me and thanked me for my "service to our community". A few days before then, a few Drag Queens stopped me as I made my way into the White House to take pictures. That same day, a heavily tattooed and quite frankly a bit intimidating motorcyclist stopped on his way to work one morning to shake my hand gratefully.

Others were the opposite. Within a day of me coming out, a protest took place outside the White House. A gathering of men, women, and even some children chanted, "The homo's got to go!" and "No pansy runs our country!"

"Just tune them out," River told me as I watched the procession from a window. "They don't know who you are. Why should you take something personally if they don't even know you personally?"

I shot River a flat look. "That quote's an awful cliché."

I stared out the window again. As I looked, a group of teenage boys flipped the White House the bird, then ran off with crows of laughter.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my elbow, making me jump. But it was only River.

He prodded me until I turned around, locking my eyes with his. "I mean it," he said softly, placing a gentle hand on my right shoulder. "They don't know anything about you. They don't know who you are, what you want, or what you've done. They're sticking their noses into your own, private business, and that's not your fault."

River's eyes and words were so warm and caring, I could hardly speak. "I—"

Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the hall. River vanished, replaced by Raymond, coming around the corner.

"Oh!" He stopped a few feet away from me, his brows raised in surprise. "Payton—I mean, Mr. Hobart. How are things?"

He glanced behind me, trying to see what was happening outside. Subconsciously, I blocked his view. He frowned.

"Sir, what—oh."

He stared at me, comprehension dawning on his face.

"Well, I'll, er—" He swallowed. "Payton—you will be okay."

My jaw hardened. _You are not my friend,_ I thought harshly. _You will never _be_ my friend._

"Payton"—a spark of anger blazed through me at the brazen use of my first name—"you made a mistake. But I understand that things have been difficult for you recently. We will work through this." He put a hand on my shoulder, the same shoulder River had grasped earlier. "Together."

I felt like recoiling from his touch, but I resisted the urge.

"I'll see you around, Payton," Raymond said, with what I was sure he thought was a sincere tone.

He strode off, continuing down the hall the way he had been going.

I didn't know where the sudden anger came from. All I knew was that a million bitter thoughts swirled in my mind, all revolving around Raymond. It was true—Raymond never _did_ care for me in any way other than as a political ally, but for some reason, the knowledge hit me hard right then and there.

Most of the public, however, didn't care, or at least didn't go on about it. Sure, some of them tagged me on Twitter with dull captions like, "Good job to our president. A brave man leading a brave country. #GodBlessAmerica," but in the end, me coming out didn't do much to their lives. They were more worried about paying off their student loans and working their nine-to-five jobs than catching up with the latest gossip of my love life.

Honestly, it was better than I could have hoped for, I thought as I visited the outdoor flea market as a way for me to take my mind off things.

Of course, that was when all my positive thoughts were ruined.

As I browsed the stands, a young boy caught my eye. He was small—he barely reached my waist—and he couldn't have been older than seven years old. He had big, round eyes and a large, round head, a pointy nose, and straight, brown hair. He was, for lack of a better word, absolutely adorable.

He was staring at me with his large, round eyes. I smiled and waved. He waved shyly back.

His mother was oblivious. She was too busy panning through a rack of shirts, her lips pursed as she searched.

"Oh, what about this one, Parker?" I heard her ask, showing him a black-and-blue t-shirt with a dinosaur on it.

The boy shook his head in disgust. "Mom, isn't that the president?" he asked, pointing.

I quickly turned my back on them and pretended to be engrossed with a small leather bag on a stand nearby.

There was a short silence behind me. Finally, the mother chirped sharply, "Yes. Come on, Parker. We're leaving."

I turned around to see her leading the boy away, a protective hand on his back between his shoulder blades, a blue-and-black dinosaur shirt discarded on the rack behind her. The boy frowned as he went, glancing back at me with big, round eyes.

* * *

Raymond, I realized, did not like to explain things when news anchors could do his job perfectly well.

He sprinted into my office. "Turn on the TV," he said, panting. "Channel seven."

There was a terrible urgency in his tone. I fumbled for the remote.

"—reports say he was _in_ the room with him when, apparently, it was young Mr. Barkley who pulled the trigger. But who's to say it wasn't in fact President Hobart who killed him?"

The camera switched to a familiar face. I recognized him as the detective that had been assigned to my case, albeit several years older. "We performed a lie detector test on his girlfriend, Alice Charles, who swore he was innocent, but I was never convinced. Based on my findings, it is entirely possible that Payton Hobart killed River Barkley."

My heart froze in my chest. No . . . they couldn't possibly . . .

Raymond muted the TV as the detective kept talking. But I'd heard enough. "They've been going on for ten minutes," he said, "and they don't show sign of stopping."

I collapsed into my chair, putting my head in my hands. "No. No, no, no, no, _no—"_

"You didn't kill him, Payton," Raymond assured me.

I didn't reply. A voice in the back of my head hissed, _Stop calling me Payton!_

"Did you?" Raymond asked feebly, taken aback by my silence.

"No!" I snapped my head up. "No, of course not. I—"

"Payton—"

A flash of anger coursed through my veins.

"—it looks bad. It looks really bad."

"I know it does!" I snapped, rubbing my temples. "I just—leave."

Raymond blinked. "What?"

"Leave!" I repeated, gesturing to the door.

Raymond stared at me for a moment, but he nodded and turned to go.

"And tell James Sullivan to come to my office," I told him as an afterthought.

"Of course," Raymond said quietly. Almost as if I'd hurt his feelings.

I stared at the door long after he'd left, my mind racing. What could I do? If I defended myself, I'd be seen as even more guilty. But I couldn't say nothing.

"You have to wait it out," said a voice at the door.

I started. It was James.

"I know," I said, jumping to my feet. "But I need your help with something else."

James gave me a bland look. "If this is about Alice—" he began.

"Yes, yes, I know," I interrupted. "And it is. But before you say anything, hear me out."

James waited. I took a deep breath.

"I want to bring everyone to D.C," I said.

James raised his eyebrows. "Everyone? As in, McAfee and Alice?"

I nodded. "And Skye and Infinity, too."

James shook his head. "Why the hell—"

"That doesn't matter now," I said quickly. "I—I've had an idea . . . Just please, help me. I'll explain later, I promise."

James stared at me for a long moment. Finally, he nodded slightly.

"All right," he said with resignation in his tone. "But you'd better not make me regret it."

* * *

At my insistence, I drove myself to Potbelly's. Alone.

When I got there, I made a beeline for the counter, pushing aside the costumers waiting in line.

"Sorry," I muttered to them, not really noticing I was doing it. My attention was mainly focused on the unfamiliar lady at the counter.

"Excuse me, but can I see Chip?" I asked her urgently.

"I-I . . . " she stammered, shock clearly displayed on her face. "Yes. I—yes, sir. Chip!" she called over her shoulder. "You have a visitor!"

She turned back to me. "He'll be out in a bit. Please, stand over there while you wait."

I did. I tapped my foot impatiently, trying to ignore the costumers lingering glances. At last, Chip emerged from the back. His face broke out in a wide grin when he saw me.

"Mr. Hobart!" he cried joyfully. I grinned despite myself.

"Follow me," I told him.

I walked as fast as I could to my usual table without running. Chip followed, his grin replaced by a perplexed look.

As soon as we sat down, I spoke.

"I've had an idea, Chip," I told him, lowering my voice so that the other costumers couldn't hear. "A stupid, crazy, reckless idea. It will almost definitely lower my approval ratings and anger a lot of people. But recent events have made me realize now, more than ever, that I have to do this . . . if not for my country, then for myself."

Chip nodded. Seeming to have grasped the seriousness of my tone, he did not smile. "What's your idea?"

Quickly, I told him.

When I finished, Chip's eyes were wide and his mouth was open in shock. He didn't say anything for a long while. At first, I worried that I'd unintentionally insulted him, but then his face broke out into his widest grin yet.

"Mr. Hobart," he said, his eyes brimming with tears, "that's the best thing I've heard all day. I think I might cry."

"Please don't," I told him, anxiously checking over his shoulder at the other costumers.

Chip took a deep breath, then looked me directly in the eyes. "I'm telling you this, Mr. Hobart: that idea is neither stupid nor reckless. And if you do that, America will not hate you. She'll thank you."

I swallowed uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," was Chip's reply.

I nodded. "Then I will do what I can." I stood. "Thank you, Chip."

He smiled. "My pleasure, Mr. Hobart."

"Please, call me Payton," I told him. "I think me spilling my heart out to you twice now has earned you that right."

Chip laughed. "Cool, Pay-Payton." He scrunched up his nose. "That sounds weird."

I clapped him on his shoulder. "You'll get used to it."

"See ya, Payton!" Chip called after me as I left.

* * *

"And you'll have to give a speech, Mr. Hobart, and hold a political rally for it in a week's time."

I raised my brows at Lauren Hayes. "Any particular reason why?" I asked.

"I'm not sure, but I think it may be because of the bombshell you dropped on the world a few weeks ago," Glen Jackson joked, causing a ripple of laughter around the table.

I suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I managed to say, "Yes. Of course."

Hayes regarded me with a stern look. If I hadn't known that she wore that look at all times, I might've thought I was in some kind of trouble. "Would you like a staff member to write it for you?"

I thought about it for a moment. "Yes, but let me revise the final draft."

Hayes added a small note to her clipboard. "Very well," she chirped. "That is all."

As she concluded the meeting, chatter broke out amongst my advisors, but I didn't linger. I stood and left the room, heading straight for my office. I was going to be working well into the night for the upcoming weeks.

* * *

The week leading up to my political rally went by in a flash, which was surprising, considering I'd hardly slept for the entirety of it. As I'd predicted, I'd stayed up until well past midnight every night, thinking of ways to make my plan reality.

Before I left to my limousine, which was waiting to take me to the National Mall where my rally would take place, James found me in my office.

At the sight of him, I perked up immediately. "Any news?"

James nodded. "McAfee is all for it. Skye says she'll join as long as she agrees with the message you're spreading. But the others . . . " James didn't need to finish his thought.

I nodded. "I figured as much. Tell them I'll get back to them soon. I'll worry about Alice and Infinity."

James nodded and turned away. Just before he left, however, he turned back and said, "Good luck."

I nodded again, already deep in thought. As I made my way to my limousine, I weighed different options. Of the two girls, Infinity would be the easier one to convince. I decided to focus on her first. Her issue was mainly distance, time, and money—to live in Rome for a while and then suddenly travel back to America for highly stressful (and unpaid) work was an acceptable reason for one to have misgivings, I presumed. I would pay for her journey, I quickly decided, and make sure she had everything she needed to be comfortable. I'd contact her about it later.

But Alice, I thought as I stepped into the limo, would be much more difficult to persuade. She would not be convinced with money, nor my services—what she would want would have to come directly from the heart . . . my heart.

And, of course, there was one more person I would need, but how I would convince _them_ . . . I had no idea.

"You're being very brave," said a voice beside me.

I smiled despite myself. "River."

Thankfully, I was alone in the back of the limousine, separated from the others by a soundproof barrier. Otherwise, I would have gotten many weird looks.

"Think of who you're doing this for," River told me, staring deep into my eyes. "Channel that energy to convince them. They'll come around—Alice, Infinity—they all will."

I broke my gaze away from River's, looking down at my lap and smiling. "Can you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?" River asked.

"You. Staring at me. Trapping my gaze in yours." I looked up, only to be immediately engulfed by his eyes once more. I suddenly lost all train of thought. "It—It's annoying," I stammered. "And endearing," I added under my breath.

"What?"

"Nothing."

At that moment, the limousine came to a stop. I hadn't realized how long we'd been driving for.

The door opened for me. I stood, and so did River. Together, we stepped outside, into the blinding sunlight—and to the cheers of the crowd.

Banners and posters of all different shapes and sizes and colors were being shaken and waved under my nose. Most of them were mine. A few seemed to be hand-made. Others brandished the names and colors of the opponents I'd won against. It was funny how long some people could hold on to their ideals.

There was a path in front of me. Surrounded by people and my Secret Service, I slowly made my way through. Everyone wanted to shake my hand. A few wanted my autograph. Others wanted me to answer a question. I did as they asked, smiling and waving while inside, I was dying of claustrophobia.

At least River was still with me. He stood behind me, a few paces back, and although I knew he wasn't really there, I felt comforted by his presence.

At one point, Raymond managed to catch up with me. "What a crowd, eh?" he called into my ear, which was barely audible among the rapid-fire shouts of, "Is that him? Mr. President! Thank you, sir! Payton Hobart! Can I ask you a question? Over here!"

I grinned and nodded at Raymond, although I still felt a little resentful toward him. But I didn't let that show. I kept smiling and waving, every once in a while glancing back at River to make sure he was still there.

When I finally made it through, I was sweating profusely. My voice was hoarse, and I worried I wouldn't be able to give my speech. But I no longer felt the immense claustrophobia of being surrounded by several hundred people in all directions, and that was worth the world.

Hidden away in an exclusive area blocked by guards, I was quickly given instructions. Then they sent me back outside, to the podium that was waiting for me.

"Good luck," Raymond wished me.

River just smiled, which somehow felt a thousand per cent more encouraging.

I stepped outside to the screams and yells of the crowd.

* * *

The speech went . . . fine, I supposed.

It wasn't amazing, but I hadn't meant it to be that way. _Just fine_ was acceptable enough.

I snorted in amusement. If I had told my past self that, I would have scrambled to find a pen.

"So what if I only have ten minutes to edit!" I would have cried. "If I have to, I'll improvise on the stand!"

I smiled, but it quickly faded when I realized I would have to fight my way back though the crowd once more.

This time, I went much quicker. This was partially due to the Secret Service, who, like me, felt the pressing tightness of claustrophobia in their chests. Unfortunately, quicker was still slow. I could barely take two steps without having to stop to shake another hand or answer another question.

Thankfully, River was again there to help me through. He gave me the strength to keep smiling even when I felt like pushing and shoving and even kicking my way back to the limousine.

After what felt like hours, I could finally see the end. _Just a little longer—_

Raymond finally caught up with me and clapped me on the back. "Nice job. Real nice job. You've gotten the people excited."

_I wish I hadn't gotten them _this_ excited,_ I thought, but I didn't say anything.

Something felt strange, though. In all the chaos and commotion, I couldn't quite place my finger on it, but it was there, hovering above me like an ominous cloud. I shuddered and walked faster.

"Something's wrong," River muttered, looking around. "Something feels . . . off."

I didn't like him voicing my concerns. I pressed forward.

"Mr. Hobart, sir—"

"Please, sir, sign here—"

"It's an honor, sir. Thank you for your service for your country."

I forced a smile and nodded. _Get to the limousine—_ "Anytime, sir. If you have a concern, please, let us know."

"I will, sir. Thank you."

"I have a concern, sir!" shouted a man next to him. _No, no, I have to get going, go away—_

"Are you sure you're fit to continue being president, sir?" the man asked in a passive-aggressive tone I immediately despised. "You're obviously going through a lot of emotional trauma right now. Can you balance work with your personal life?"

My smile suddenly became much more strained. "I have managed for the last few years well enough. Besides, I am not suffering from any emotional trauma at the moment and—"

"Oh, come on!" The man wheezed. "You've gotta be shittin' me. Why else would you suddenly announce you're a fairy?"

Immediately, the crowd around him erupted. The people surged toward the man—some to defend him, others to attack him.

"You're a disgrace to our country!" one woman shouted.

"Nah, that'd be you!" a man fired back.

"How dare you say such horrible things!" another man shouted.

"You're pathetic!"

"Weak!"

"It's people like you who make this country a living hell!"

It was unclear which side each person was on. All I knew was that tensions were brewing, something was wrong, and I needed to get out of here _now_.

"Raymond, help me get out of here!" I yelled into his ear over the noise. He nodded and beckoned me to follow him.

Suddenly, there was a surge of noise behind me. I whipped around to see the crowd converging at one point—it seemed like the fight had gotten physical. Quickly, the Secret Service surrounded me and ushered me from the scene.

At last, the crowd parted. I could finally breathe again. I sighed in relief, taking in deep breaths of fresh air—

_Pop! Pop! Pop!_

The noise of the crowd faded around me. I blinked, looking around. What was happening?

Behind me stood Raymond. He was staring at me, his mouth wide in shock. His eyes met mine—they were full of fear. I frowned.

"Raymon'? Wha—"

I could hardly speak. My head spun and my legs suddenly gave way from beneath me. Blurry figures ran toward me, their panicked voices filling my head. _"The President's been shot! THE PRESIDENT'S BEEN SHOT!"_

The last thing I remembered was the sound of my own heartbeat. Then everything went black.


	5. Article I Section V—The Plan

I woke up to the constant _beep_ of a hospital machine. I was lying on a soft mattress, covered in warm, scratchy hospital sheets. My eyes fluttered open. A pale, cracked, and stained ceiling welcomed me, as well as a smiling face.

"Mr. Ho—Payton!" cried an enthusiastic Chip.

I blinked. "H-How did you—"

"I asked, and they let me in," he said with a shrug. "I think Raymond vouched for me or something. Anyway"—he spread his arms wide—"here I am!"

The corners of my lips quirked up. Trust Chip to lift my spirits. Why he ever quit being a therapist was beyond me.

The hospital room light was blindingly bright and did nothing to help my splitting headache. I struggled to sit up—then promptly fell back onto my pillows as a sharp pain shot through my entire body.

"Woah, woah." Chip steadied me with a firm grip on my shoulder. "You've been shot, Payton. A couple inches to the right and the bullet would've pierced your heart."

The world was spinning around me. I groaned. In my half-conscious state, I mumbled, "Uh huagh."

Chip bit his lip. "I'll go get the doctor."

He didn't return. Instead, a thin, bony, sharp-looking man dressed in a doctor's uniform came in his place. He straightened his square glasses and peered down at me over the rims. "How are we feeling today, Mr. Hobart?"

I licked my lips. "Thirsty."

The doctor smiled. "Understandable." He made a note on his clipboard. "Kara, Mr. Hobart would like a glass of water!"

A nurse bustled in, a glass in hand.

"Set it there, please."

She did, then left, all without saying a word.

"I am Doctor Jackson, and I will be treating you today. Now"—he set aside his clipboard—"tell me, where does it hurt?"

I swallowed. I knew this tactic. It was psychology rule number one: acting like the person you are talking to is the most important thing in the room. I used it constantly against my staff and even my wife . . .

"My chest," I mumbled.

"And on a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"

I rolled my eyes. "Um, seven."

I shifted uncomfortably, causing another spike of pain to shoot through my body.

"Stay still," he commanded, pushing me back onto my pillows. I groaned.

"Now," he began, leaning forward, "tell me, what—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. At that moment, the door burst open, exposing a tall, stubborn-looking woman. At the sight of her, I gasped aloud.

"Leave us," Penelope Singh barked, her eyes sparkling in challenge.

I gaped. There was no way . . . no _way_ . . .

Doctor Jackson stared. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am, but whatever you have to say, it can wait—"

Penelope's eyes flashed. "This is my ex-husband!" she cried, gesturing at me angrily. "I demand that you—"

"All the more reason for you to _leave_," Doctor Jackson snapped. "He needs to be evaluated, not taxed emotionally—"

"No," I rasped, struggling to sit up. "Let her stay."

He pursed his lips. I knew he was going to refuse, but at the look on Penelope's face he swallowed and nodded. "You have ten minutes."

He left hurriedly.

As soon as the door closed behind him, silence fell. The united front between Penelope and I against Doctor Jackson was gone, replaced by awkward silence.

"Um," I said at last, "what are you doing here?"

Penelope gave me a withering look.

I backtracked quickly. "Which I'm happy you are here, of course. I couldn't _not_ be happy. I just—I can't—"

"Payton." Penelope cut me off. "Shut up."

I did.

Penelope sighed. "I'm here to check on you."

She said this matter of fact, as if she were simply reading an essay she knew nothing about. I raised my brows.

"You were worried about me?" I asked.

"I—yes." Her eyes met mine. "I was."

"Why?"

"I may have divorced you, but I still care about you, Payton." She winced. "As much as I may not like it."

I didn't know what to make of that. Fortunately, Penelope kept talking.

"Where were you hit?"

I gestured vaguely at my chest. "According to Chip, it very nearly hit my heart."

Penelope looked confused. "Who?"

"Chip. He—he doesn't matter."

"He doesn't matter to you?"

"No!" I shook my head. "No, that—that's not what I meant."

"But does it hurt? Is it bleeding? Are you—"

"Penelope," I interrupted, "what are you really doing here?"

It was too good to be true. Literally. I would not allow myself to be fooled.

She broke off, staring at me. "I told you. I'm worried about you."

"No," I said sharply. "You came here for a reason, what was it."

My eyes met hers. I put as much force into my gaze as I could muster.

Her brown eyes hesitantly looked back at mine. "Payton, I—"

"Just tell me. Please."

I hated begging. Penelope knew this. She sighed, looking down. "I thought you might need my help."

I blinked. "With what?"

She gave me a bland look. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

I shook my head. "Really, I don't."

"Payton, you're gay."

"Bisexual," I automatically corrected.

"Exactly!" Penelope cried, wringing her hands. "And in the years that we were married, you never once mentioned it!"

"So?"

"So—" She shook her head. "I don't know. But it's beside the point. Payton—I know what you're planning to do. And I want you to know"—her eyes once again met mine—"you have my full support."

Her words hit me like a soft, sparkly unicorn stuffed animal. I suddenly felt all warm and fuzzy inside. "I—thank you."

She nodded—once—and gave me a small smile. Then she stiffened her jaw. Apparently, she had had enough of being open-hearted today.

"Goodbye, Payton," she told me coolly. "If you need me, you know how to contact me."

She turned to leave. She was almost at the door when I realized something.

"Wait!"

She looked back, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Who told you?" I asked. "Was it James? McAfee?"

She smirked. "Alice."

Then she was gone. I stared at the closed door. I hadn't even known she and Alice knew each other.

* * *

It took Doctor Jackson two weeks to allow me to leave the hospital. Whether that was protocol time, early, or late, I had no idea, but I was too anxious to leave to care.

When I stepped outside, Raymond was there to greet me, along with triple amounts of security.

"You feeling alright?" he asked, his tone suggesting he was slightly worried.

I nodded. "Get me out of here."

I couldn't get into the limousine quick enough. Memories of my disastrous political rally flashed through my mind. If only I'd gotten into the car faster . . .

"Did they catch whoever did it?" I asked Raymond.

He didn't need to ask who I was talking about. "No. It's been a mess. The FBI's scrambling to search for terrorist groups. The CIA thinks it might be an inside man. You'll get a rundown as soon as we get to the White House."

He was right. As soon as I got inside, I was shuffled to a meeting room, the largest in the White House.

I sat down at the head of the table. People filed in, so many that there were not enough chairs for everyone. Yet still, more and more people entered, until it seemed that the entire staff of the White House was there, even the maids.

James was among them. He raised his brows at me. _Are you okay?_ he seemed to ask.

I nodded.

Finally, Raymond called for attention.

"We are gathered here to discuss the matters of President Payton Hobart's assassination attempt," he said to the crowd. "If you have prepared an approved statement, please come forward."

A few people approached the table, while others simply stood from their seats. One of them I recognized as Gavin Paterson, Director of the FBI.

"Please note," Raymond continued, "that some matters will be redacted due to the needed secrecy of this case. Director Paterson, if you would please begin?"

Paterson nodded. He drew himself up to his full height—a towering six feet—and spoke in a gruff voice:

"The matters proceed as follows: at three forty-four in the afternoon, President Hobart was shot once in the chest, a few inches to the left of his heart, and James Hardy, member of the Secret Service, was fatally wounded."

My stomach dropped.

"In total, three bullets were shot," Paterson continued. "The Federal Bureau of Investigation has done extensive investigations into the matter, and we believe the person or persons responsible were, in fact, part of a terrorist group. That is all we may disclose at this time."

He stepped back. Immediately, another man stood: Harrison Gibson, Director of the CIA.

"We, the Central Intelligence Agency, agree with the facts presented to us by Director Paterson. However, there is evidence pointing to the person or persons responsible having inside knowledge of the inner workings of President Hobart's schedule and security. We are currently investigating the matter further. That is all we may disclose at this time."

He sat. Within moments, another person stood in his place.

The meeting lasted well over an hour. Person after person gave their testimony, and while the details of _what_ happened was never argued over, _how_ it happened became a subject of heated debate. One thing was certain, however: not one person knew just who was responsible for the attack.

Eventually, I tuned everything out, instead allowing myself to think about James Hardy. I hadn't been told someone had died in my failed assassination attempt. I'd had no idea anyone but myself had been hit. But someone was _dead._ For _me_. The knowledge rested heavily on my shoulders.

It didn't take a rocket scientist the determine the motive behind the attack. In fact, it was so blatantly obvious (and controversial) that not one person included it in their statement. I suppose that, without a suspect, they technically couldn't form a motive, but it was clear what it was anyway; someone was pissed off with me. Perhaps I'd insulted them, perhaps I'd insulted their religion . . . perhaps if I'd just kept my head down and my mouth shut, James Hardy would still be alive.

I didn't even know the man. That fact filled me with more guilt than his actual death. I couldn't mourn, because I had no idea who he was. And yet, I should mourn, shouldn't I?

_Emotionless_, my mind told me.

_I thought we'd worked past this_, I argued.

_Sociopath._

I was so lost in thought, I didn't even realize the meeting had finally come to an end until Raymond tapped me on the shoulder. I started, then tried to stand, but he shook his head.

"You're going to get the undisclosed details in a bit," he said in a low voice. Then, as an afterthought, "Try to pay attention for it."

I shot him a disdainful look.

Finally, it was just Raymond, Paterson, Gibson, and I. Immediately, Paterson turned to me.

"This was a hate crime," he told me quickly.

He paused, as if waiting for my reaction, but all I could think was, _No shit, Sherlock._

"Hate crime of not, I just can't imagine why anyone would attempt it," Raymond said, shaking his head. "Your approval ratings are still off the charts, Payton. Why anyone would try to assassinate a president as popular as you?"

"On the contrary," I said, "that's exactly why someone would try it. Those few who don't approve of me are getting desperate. Some react differently than others."

Raymond furrowed his brow. "You sure?"

"I studied psychology in college."

"Beyond the point," Gibson intervened. "We need to conduct an investigation of all members of this White House for possible suspects."

"And connections to terrorist groups," Paterson added.

Gibson sighed. "And connections to terrorist groups."

Right away, I picked up on the slight hostility in his tone.

"Right." Raymond clapped his hands together, oblivious to the sparks flying between the two Directors. "We'll split the people between you to be interviewed."

"And please take both of your ideas into account," I added, addressing their antagonism toward each other. "Search for terrorists and spies alike."

Paterson lifted his chin. "We are here to do our jobs, sir, nothing more."

I nodded. "Good. Dismissed."

They left, shooting each other contemptuous looks as they did. I was willing to bet my life that their investigations would be unsuccessful.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Do you think it was an inside job?" I asked Raymond.

He bit his lip. "I don't know jack about law enforcement, Payton."

He said my first name, but I couldn't find it in me to be angry. My aching migraine was coming back.

"How can you not be?" I asked. "You help create the laws."

"Yes, but I don't enforce them," he retorted. "There's a difference."

There was too much wisdom in his statement to argue. Either that, or I was just tired.

"Either way, I don't think we should bank on their investigations," I told Raymond.

He furrowed his brows. "Why not?"

"Trust me." I stood, clutching my chest as a burning pain shot through my bones, as if my ribs were on fire. "I'm going to my office."

With that, I staggered to the door, almost collapsing on the way. Raymond rushed forward to help me.

Doctor Jackson had let me out early, then.

* * *

A week passed. Slowly, I began to heal. I could now walk for an entire day without collapsing. But the migraines didn't get any better.

There was a knock on the door to my office. I cleared my throat. "Come in."

James entered. "I have good news," he said.

I raised my brows. "What? Is it about the plan?"

He smiled mysteriously and stepped aside.

My heart stopped.

"Hello, Payton," Alice Charles said coolly, gliding into the room.

She was wearing a dark, button-up trench coat with no visible pants underneath. Slung over her shoulder was an elegant white purse. She'd grown out her blonde hair since I'd last seen her, and it now hung past her shoulders, curled at the ends.

In other words, she was stunningly hot.

I stood quickly, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. I didn't care.

"I—I d-don't—" I stammered.

"I'll leave you two be," James said, and turned to the door.

I panicked. He couldn't leave me! "Wait!"

But he left, closing the door with a _snap_ behind him.

I stared at it, at loss for what to do. My heart was pounding. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Alice shaking her head resignedly.

"Payton," she said.

I swallowed. "Yes?" I asked, quickly turning to her. Too quickly. A flash of pain shot through my skull.

"Do you have something to say to me?"

Was it just me, or was it hot in this office? I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. "Yes," I breathed.

She waited.

This was what James wanted, I realized. He wanted me to apologize. _I_ wanted to apologize. But I couldn't get my mouth to work. To have her be here with me, so suddenly, without warning . . . The headache wasn't helping either.

"Um . . . I, um—I'm sorry," I choked out.

Alice raised her brows.

"I was being an ungrateful idiot," I continued. "And I acknowledge that."

She clicked her tongue. "You'll have to try harder."

I took a deep breath.

"Alice Charles," I began, "you are confident, highly intellectually gifted, and have more beauty than words can describe. I was a fool to ever let you go, and I stupidly jumped to conclusions. I should have asked for specification about who you were going to see, rather than assuming they were your boyfriend." I met her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She lifted her chin. "Better."

And she turned to go.

"Wait!" I cried, stumbling forward. "Is that—is that it? You're leaving?"

She shot me a haughty look over her shoulder. "I'll help you, Payton. But I'll need much more than that to forgive you."

And she left the room, leaving me lost and confused.

* * *

"So, you're telling me that I'll have to stay in America for a minimum of three months?" Infinity's high voice was even higher on the phone.

"Yes. And I'd need you to provide your support to me in any way you can," I told her.

Infinity paused. "Payton, I have a job. I can't just take three months off with no warning."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "What about with a few weeks warning?"

"Um . . . maybe? It would have to be a very good reason."

I nodded vigorously, even though she couldn't see it. "It is."

"What are you even trying to do, Payton?"

I ignored her question. "If I gave good word to your boss, could you take the time off then?"

There was silence on the other side of the phone for a moment. Then Infinity said, "Yes. But it wouldn't be payed leave."

"I'll cover all your expenses," I assured her immediately.

"Are you even allowed to use US money like that?"

"No, but I can use my own."

"Oh." Infinity sounded flattered. "Thanks."

"I just need you here for support. And anything else you could offer."

"Of course. Anything." She coughed.

Suddenly, I was on edge. "Are you okay? Are you sick?"

"It's just a cold, Payton."

I wasn't convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Infinity insisted. "It was Nana who was making me sick, remember?"

"I know, I know . . . " I sighed. "So, you can come?"

"Yes."

"Great!" I smiled. "Perfect."

"But what are you doing, Payton?" Infinity asked. "What are you planning?"

"I'll tell you when you get here," I promised her.

"Fine. But this better be worth it."

"It will. Thank you."

I hung up, biting my lip. That was McAfee, Skye, Alice, and Infinity all taken care of. Now, I just needed one more . . . one who, due to recent events, would most likely be convinced far easier than I had anticipated.

Of course, that didn't mean it would be easy.

"Payton?"

I looked up. Raymond stood at my door. I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Yes?"

He scoffed. "You're not happy to see me?"

I shook my head. "No. That's not what I meant. I just get terrible migraines even since I was shot."

Raymond furrowed his brows. "Is that a side-effect?"

I frowned. "Not sure."

He shook his head. "I think you just need to take better care of yourself, Payton. Have you been drinking water lately?"

Come to think of it, I hadn't, but I didn't tell him that. I had pride.

"Anyway," he continued, "I came to ask you something: what is this great thing you're planning?"

I raised my brows. "What?"

"I know you're up to something," he said. "Why keep it secret?"

"Oh." I shrugged. "It's not really a secret. I'm simply trying to sort out the details before I announce anything publicly." I frowned. "How did you know?"

"That man—James, is it?—keeps talking to you constantly. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

I nodded. "I suppose."

Raymond grinned. Then, like a kid tempted by candy, he asked, "So what is it?"

I snorted and stood, heading to the water jug in the corner of my office, right beside the coffee machine. Raymond followed me there.

"Really, Payton. I'm curious."

I filled my cup and didn't answer. In truth, I felt a little awkward. I didn't know why. But, for whatever reason, telling Raymond my plans felt personal and violating.

_That can potentially cause some conflict in the future, _I thought to myself._ How can I tell the entire population of the United States of America if I can't tell my most trusted advisor? _Why_ can't I tell my most trusted advisor?_

The answer came to me in a rather harsh way.

It was a simple, meaningless gesture, really, but it meant the world. I thought nothing of it, nor of the consequences it might bring, because in reality there should have been no consequences at all. But what happened was this: I turned around and placed a casual hand on Raymond's shoulder—and he _cringed_.

I withdrew my hand at once, as if I had been burned. Raymond, meanwhile, stumbled several steps backward, looking anywhere but me.

It was then that I knew why, exactly, I couldn't tell him.

"Get out," I snapped, slamming my cup on the table and causing water to soak my sleeve. "Now."

Raymond shook his head vigorously. "Payton, I'm sorry, I—" He still couldn't look me in the eye.

"OUT!" I bellowed, rage pooling in my gut. "GET OUT, NOW!"

He scampered. But just before he left, he turned back. There was murder in his eyes.

"When you look back at this and regret it," he snarled, "and you _will_ regret it, remember that this all could've been avoided if you'd just heeded my words in the first place: _we can't just suddenly support Liberal movements. _Especially not as drastically as you did!"

"And what harm has come from it?" I hissed at him. "Has Armageddon begun?"

"Violent protests are happening right on your doorstep, the people are turning against you, and you've almost been assassinated," he retorted. "In political terms, that is Armageddon."

"Get out," I snarled under my breath.

"Just remember, you could've listened to me—"

_"Get out!"_

He did at last, slamming the door behind him.

I don't know how long I stood there, glaring at the empty space where Raymond had been. My body was trembling in rage, my very blood on fire—yet somehow, I didn't demolish the place. I felt like it, though. Lord, did I feel like it.

At some point, I cried. But at last, I took a deep breath and calmed myself down. I wouldn't let Raymond stop me. If anything, he had stiffened my resolve.

I _would_ go through with this. I would do it for the people, for myself, and most importantly, for River. I would do this for River.

He didn't appear to me then, but I could feel his presence. He was right behind me, and he wouldn't let me fall.

With newfound strength, I sat down at my desk and got to work.

I was going to make gay marriage legal in all fifty states of America.

_For River._


	6. Article II Section I—For Lies

"I want to _kill_ Raymond," I snarled.

Chip held up his hands defensively. "Woah. Take a step back. What happened?"

I hesitated. I was at my usual table of Potbelly's Sandwich Shop with Chip. Over his shoulder, River smiled at me.

"He's homophobic," I told Chip.

Internally, I winced. I was the President of the United States of America! Why did I say something so childish?

Fortunately, Chip didn't seem to think it was. "That bitch," he muttered.

I couldn't help it: I snorted in laughter. Chip gave me a blank look under his baseball cap.

"What's so funny?"

"You. I've never heard you swear before." I frowned. "Actually, I didn't think you were capable of swearing."

He laughed.

"Anyway," I said, "what do I do? He is—he _was_ my most trusted advisor. If I suddenly turn my back on him now, the people will start to whisper."

Chip bit his lip. "Well, I can't say I'm much of a politician—"

"Too true," I muttered under my breath.

"—but if I were in your position, I'd probably . . . tell the truth."

I shook my head. "Not possible. If I tell anyone that I yelled at my most trusted advisor for something as small as that—"

"It wasn't small," Chip argued.

"But the people will think it is."

He sighed. "Maybe. But I wasn't suggesting you tell the truth about _that_." He met my eyes. "I was talking about your plan."

I swallowed.

"Think about it, Payton. If you announced you planned to make gay marriage legal . . . "

"I can't," I muttered, looking down.

"Why not?"

I didn't have a good answer. "I just—I can't."

Chip leaned back in his chair. "I can't help you if you don't tell me."

"Then you can't help," I said, and stood up to leave.

But River, watching the interaction from afar, shook his head.

I stared at him. He stared right back. "Sit down. Chip can help."

Chip, confused, twisted in his seat and followed my gaze. When he didn't see anything, he turned back to me. "What are you looking at?"

I couldn't tell him about River. Instead I asked him, "When do you get off?"

He licked his lips. "Seven. Why?"

"Meet me at Lafayette Square, by the Rochambeau statue."

He nodded. "All right."

I left, River smiling approvingly behind me.

* * *

When I got back to the office, I was met by my Secretary of State, Lauren Hayes. She looked grumpier than usual, which wasn't a good sign. Especially considering how grumpy she was on a daily basis.

"What is it?" I asked her.

She pursed her lips. "We have a problem."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

She gave me a look closely resembling a glare. "Follow me."

She turned on her heel and walked swiftly into the White House, her chin held high. I swallowed nervously and followed, almost running to keep up with her. How could she walk so fast in those heels? And more importantly, what was wrong? Had Raymond tattled?

I dismissed the thought as soon as it came. If there was one thing I trusted about Raymond, it was that he would not tell a soul about what happened between us. He had too much pride.

But all the same . . .

Hayes led me through the hall, past the Red Room and the State Dining Room, and into the elevator. From there, we head to the offices on the third floor.

When we get to the main office, it's packed with people, including Raymond. James is there, my advisors are there . . . and standing by the table were two men: Gavin Paterson of the FBI, and Harrison Gibson of the CIA.

"Please, Mr. Hobart, sit down," says Paterson, gesturing to an empty chair at the head of the table. "We—"

"Just a few questions, if you wouldn't mind," Gibson interrupted, ignoring Paterson's subtle glare. So, their not-so-subtle rivalry was still very much alive.

I sat, biting my lip. "What's this about?" I asked no one in particular.

"You'll find out soon enough," was Gibson's response.

I swallowed. That didn't sound good.

"Mr. Hobart," Paterson began, "I am sorry to report that we have been unsuccessful at determining the man behind your assassination attempt. However, we cannot ignore a serious matter any longer." He frowned, looking down at his steepled hands for a moment before looking back at me. "Mr. Hobart, I need you to be honest with me—"

"With us," Gibson interrupted.

"—did you have any hand in the death of a young man by the name of River Barkley?"

_Oh_. Oh no. "Of course not!" I cried, a little too quickly. "Why would you ever think such a thing?"

"It's just—the circumstances of his death were strange," Gibson said. "His killer was never apprehended—"

"That's because it was a suicide!"

"Nevertheless." He looked at me apologetically. "Forgive me for being suspicious."

"This happened years ago," I said. "There was not enough evidence against me then, nor is there now. Why am I still being investigated for this?"

"It was said that your relationship with River had been straining around the time of his death. Is it possible you were jealous of his relationship with his girlfriend?"

"Who told you that?" I snapped, unable to keep the anger out of my tone.

"Mr. Hobart—" Lauren Hayes warned.

"Please answer the question," Paterson told me.

I looked at him. "No. I wasn't. And even if I was, I never would have killed him. I—"

But I couldn't say any more. Not in front of all these people.

"You—?" Gibson asked.

I swallowed. "I—I cared for him. A lot."

I didn't need to say more; the entire room understood what I meant.

"Very well, Mr. Hobart," said Gibson, gathering his papers. "Then you won't mind taking a polygraph test, would you."

I sputtered. "I—" Gibson raised his brows. "No. I mean, yes, I wouldn't mind."

"Good," said Paterson. "Well then, stay still, if you please . . ."

Immediately, three men came through the door, carrying an intricate machine. I raised my brows in surprise. "Here? Now?"

"Yes," Paterson said. "Unless you have any objections."

I shook my head. "No, sir . . ."

The men hooked me up to the machine. The surrounding crowd watched with bated breath, as if waiting for fireworks to spew from it. I checked my watch: it was six thirty. This was going to cut close . . .

"Do you have someplace to be?" Paterson asked.

"No," I said automatically. "I just made an arrangement to meet a man—"

"A romantic partner?"

"No! He's just a friend!"

Paterson didn't look convinced. Nor did the rest of the crowd.

"What—I'm serious!" I sputtered.

"Then why meet with him so late at night?" Gibson probed.

"Because he doesn't get off work until seven, you complete—"

I stopped myself. No need to get into more trouble than I already was.

The men finished hooking me up to the lie detector. They took several steps back. Meanwhile, Gibson moved to monitor the screen, while Paterson picked up a thick file.

"Mr. Hobart," he said, "we are first going to ask you a few questions that we know are the truth, to establish a base. Please answer them honestly. Was is your name?"

"Payton Hobart," I replied.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven."

"What high school did you attend?"

"Saint Sebastian High School."

"And where did you attend college?"

"New York University."

"Now, I would like you to lie on this next question." Paterson looked at his notes. "What city did you grow up in?"

"Um, Charleston."

There was a brief silence while the room looked at Gibson for confirmation. Eventually, he nodded. "It's a lie."

"Good." Paterson surveyed his notes. "Well then, Mr. Hobart, let's begin."

All eyes turned to me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"Mr. Hobart," Paterson began, "what was your relationship with River Barkley?"

"Um, we were first friends, then . . . I suppose you could say partners. It was complicated."

"How so?"

I wished everyone else in the room would leave. I didn't like divulging details of my personal life in front of such a big audience. "Well, um, he had a girlfriend at the time."

"And what did you think of this girlfriend?"

I thought about it for a moment. I had to word this answer carefully, lest they get the wrong idea. "In second grade, she insulted me with a gay slur. We've been rivals ever since."

Paterson looked at Gibson. "It's true," Gibson said.

Paterson nodded and continued. "What was your relationship with River like at that time?"

"Uh, I barely knew him," I said.

"So how is it that you became lovers?"

"He was my mandarin tutor. We, uh—he kissed me." I blushed and looked down.

There was a pause. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gibson examining me intently. At last, he looked up and nodded at Paterson.

"What weapon did River use to kill himself?"

"Gun," I replied immediately, still looking down.

"And you know this how?"

"Because I was there when he killed himself," I said.

"Please look up, Mr. Hobart."

I did.

"Can you repeat your last statement?"

I swallowed. "I was in the room with River when he killed himself."

Paterson paused, as if to let the knowledge sink in. "Was River shot in the chest, neck, or head?"

"Head."

"So you have intimate knowledge of the details of River Barkley's death, yet you didn't kill him?"

"Yes!" I hissed through my teeth.

"No need to be irritated, Mr. Hobart," Gibson said. But that, far from calming me down, made me angrier.

"Mr. Hobart," Gibson said firmly, "your emotions are doing you no favors. Please calm down."

I looked down and took several deep breaths, squeezing my eyes shut.

_Come on, Payton, _said River in my head. _He's right. Besides, they're just trying to provoke you. Don't let them win._

When I looked up, my anger had vanished. "Please continue."

Paterson nodded, once again glancing at his notes. "When was the last time you saw River?"

My heart missed a beat.

Gibson frowned. He glanced at Paterson, then looked at me. "Mr. Hobart, please answer the question truthfully."

My hands curled around the arm rests of my chair, clutching them tightly. "I—"

"Mr. Hobart, please answer the question truthfully."

I gulped. How on earth was I supposed to get out of this mess? I couldn't admit to seeing River in my head constantly. I'd be considered mentally ill, unfit to be President. But I also couldn't lie.

"Mr. Hobart, if you do not answer, we will have to consider you guilty," Gibson warned.

I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I just—" I hung my head. "The last time I saw River alive was on the day of his death. I saw his body, wrapped up, being carried into an ambulance, and that was all."

Technically, it was the truth. The River I heard just now and saw with Chip wasn't really River; it was just an echo of him. I channeled this knowledge into steadying my heartbeat and evening out my breathing.

There was a long pause after this response. At last, Gibson nodded. "Truth."

Paterson looked disappointed. I held back a sigh of relief.

"Did anyone else know about your intimate relationship with River?"

"Yes. Alice Charles and Astrid Sloan."

"And how are they related to you?"

"Alice was my girlfriend, Astrid was River's girlfriend."

"Ah." Paterson nodded. "And how did they react to the knowledge?"

"Um, Alice didn't care. Astrid asked me . . . well, it doesn't matter. But she didn't care either."

Paterson narrowed his eyes. "I'll decide what doesn't matter."

My cheeks started burning. "Um, well . . . she asked _me_, but . . .

"Please answer the question quickly, Mr. Hobart."

"She asked if we—as in the three of us—could, um . . . _get it on_."

I carefully avoided everyone's eyes.

"And did you agree?"

My eyes flashed. How dare they ask me that! "I don't see how that's relevant—"

"Answer the question, sir."

I looked down, anger and embarrassment flaring in my gut. "Yes," I hissed through my teeth.

"Mr. Hobart," Gibson warned me.

"I know, I know!"

I swallowed. I wanted this to be over. I checked my watch: six fifty-three. I would be late to meet with Chip.

"When will this be over?" I asked.

"When I say it is," Paterson replied.

I resisted a groan. "Fine. Just—hurry up. Please."

Paterson gave me a look that quite clearly told me he would ignore my wish.

"Have you had an intimate relationship with another man after River's death?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Have you done anything intimate, such as flirting, kissing, or otherwise, with another man since River's death?"

"No."

_"Liar!"_

The cry was sudden, unexpected. I almost fell from my seat in surprise. I looked around to see Raymond, on his feet, murder in his eyes.

"He may not have done it intentionally, but he has," he snapped. He pointed at me. "Payton Hobart has on several occasions flirted with one of the Potbelly's cashiers, Chip!"

Excited conversation started buzzing around the room. I opened my mouth to protest, but was interrupted by Paterson booming, _"Quiet!"_

Almost immediately, the room fell silent.

Paterson glared at Raymond. "Please keep this professional, sir."

Raymond sat, seething.

I stared at him, my heart beating loudly in my ears. What the hell had inspired that? It wasn't like Raymond at all, even with what had happened. His eyes met mine; I quickly looked away.

"Mr. Hobart, if you would please calm yourself again."

I bit my tongue. "Yes. I—yes." I took several more deep breaths.

"Well." Paterson leaned back in his chair. "Tell me, who is Chip?"

I gritted my teeth. "He's just a friend. I've never flirted with him, that's the truth."

Paterson looked at Gibson, who nodded.

"Nevertheless, what is Chip's full name?"

I shook my head. "I have no idea."

Paterson looked taken aback. "None?"

"None. I'm just a regular at his shop, nothing more."

Gibson spoke. "Lie."

Paterson raised his brows. "Really? Can you tell me why that is, Mr. Hobart?"

My shoulders slumped. "Chip used to be a therapist. Sometimes I go to him for advice."

Paterson nodded. "What kind of advice?"

"Unfortunately," I said, "I cannot say at this moment. Some of the information is classified. Chip knows nothing about those parts, of course, but in order for me to explain anything properly, I would have to give information that many of the people in this room do not have clearance for." I leveled Paterson with a stare. "Including you."

I was playing at being tough, really, but it worked. His Adam's apple bobbed as he stared back at me, his eyes narrowed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gibson trying his very best not to smile.

"Gibson?" Paterson snapped.

"It's true."

"Fine," he relented. "Fine." He looked down at his notes. "Mr. Hobart—"

"Hasn't this gone on long enough?" interrupted a new voice.

I looked up and suppressed a smile. It was James. He had his arms crossed and a determined look on his face.

Gibson narrowed his eyes. "It will be over soon. If you have any objections, you may leave."

"You know what, I think I will," he said. "My feet hurt, I have several reports to fill out . . . I'm sure many of you have to do the same," he said, addressing the crowd.

There were many nods and a smattering of, "Yeah. Uh, yep. Me too."

James nodded, satisfied. "Well, I'll be going, then. Thank you for this highly entertaining performance. This was definitely worth missing my once-in-a-lifetime phone call with the British Prime Minister." The sarcasm in his tone was thick.

He left, and with him went more than half the crowd. As soon as they started to leave, others decided to join them, too, until only Paterson, Gibson, Raymond, Hayes, and I were left.

"Well," Hayes chirped, gathering her things. "It looks like that will be about all. Thank you, gentlemen. Come, Raymond, there are some important matters I would like to discuss with you . . . "

And she left. Raymond reluctantly followed.

Silence fell in the room. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from grinning. Inside, I sang, _Thank you, James!_ over and over again, complete with a piano riff and a tap dance.

Paterson cleared his throat. "Um, very well. That's—that's everything."

"Good." I suppressed a sigh of relief as I stood, moving to detach myself from the machine.

"Hold on just one moment," Gibson said before I could. "Payton Hobart, do you swear that all the questions we have asked you today have been answered wholly and truthfully?"

"I do," I said, tapping my foot impatiently.

"Then you are free to go." I tugged at the different straps connecting me to the machine again.

I couldn't get out of the room fast enough. As soon as I was free, I walked to the door as fast as I could without running. The moment I was outside, I checked my watch: it was seven thirty-three. I doubted there was any chance Chip was still waiting for me at the Rochambeau Statue, but I went there anyway, grinning at my stupid luck and the sharp wit of my friends.

I wrestled through the line of people waiting for the elevator, pretending not to notice the eyes on my back. As I hurried down the stairs instead, I met James on the landing. He smirked.

"Did it work?" he asked.

I grinned. "Like a charm. Thanks."

He grinned triumphantly as I raced past him.

"Where are you going?" he called after me.

"Sorry, but I'm late for something!"

As I left the White House and ran to the Rochambeau Statue, my smile faded. That was a disaster. A horrible, embarrassing disaster. An absolute _disaster!_

I wondered what I could do to repair the damage. Most likely nothing.

My spirits were lifted, however, when I approached the statue.

_Chip was there._

I gaped at him as I slowed down. "You're—you're still here."

He nodded. "Care to explain?"

I swallowed. "I got held up."

"For thirty minutes?" Chip said disbelievingly.

I sighed. "Gavin Paterson and Harrison Gibson, of the FBI and CIA, respectively, had me take a polygraph test."

Chip raised his brows. "Really? Why?"

"They think I killed River."

Chip furrowed his brow. "Wasn't he that guy you were talking about in your speech . . . the one who you had a relationship with in high school?"

I nodded.

"Man." He shook his head. "That's messed up."

I bit my lip. "Yeah . . ."

It was only then I realized just how focused they'd been on my relationship with River, rather than the actual evidence that pointed toward me killing him. _They didn't care about the case, _I realized. _They just wanted to make me look stupid. And gay._

It was a heavy weight on my heart to realize that _stupid_ and _gay_ were being treated as synonyms.

"Anyway, what did you bring me out here for?" Chip asked gently.

I furrowed my brow. "I don't remember, honestly." The events of the polygraph test had wiped all prior thoughts clean from my mind. I buried my face in my hands and groaned. "I brought you out here for nothing. I'm sorry."

There was a short silence. Then I felt a comforting hand, soft and warm, on my shoulder. I looked up. Somehow, Chip was smiling. How come he could always smile? "That's all right, Payton. Really, it is."

I smiled too.

* * *

I was in my office, pacing in front of my desk. In the corner by the coffee machine, River watched.

"What do I do, what do I do? My God, what do I do?" My pacing became more frantic. "What do I do, what do I do, what do I—"

"You're stressing yourself out," River told me, leaning casually against the wall.

"Yes, yes I am!" I collapsed into my desk chair, putting my head in my hands. _Three fifty-two a.m, _read the clock on the desk.

River pushed himself off the wall. He walked across the room, around the desk, and put his hands on my shoulders. He squeezed. "Relax. Deep breaths."

I stood abruptly, taking a few steps away from River. "I've had enough deep breaths for a lifetime. Do you know how many times I had to calm myself down—"

River sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Payton—"

"What do I do?" I interrupted. "I can't—I don't—"

"You've got to relax," River repeated.

"I know, but I—" I shook my head. "I need to repair the damage. God, how do I repair the damage?"

"You can't," River said.

I fixed him with a stare. "Thanks."

River smiled softly. "I mean, you can't take back what you said. But you can act like it didn't affect you."

I looked at my feet. "But it was so—so _personal_. They asked me so much _shit_—" I shivered. "Was it even entirely legal? No, it was too violating for it to be legal. Wasn't it?"

River shrugged. I rushed to the computer.

_polygraph test laws, _I searched.

"There's a lot about the Employee Polygraph Protection Act," I muttered, scrolling through the results.

"You're legally allowed to refuse to take one," River said, reading over my shoulder.

"Would've been nice to know earlier," I muttered bitterly.

"You didn't have a choice," he assured me. "If you'd refused, you would have looked guilty."

"Yeah. Now everyone knows about my high school sex life. So much better!"

River shook my shoulder. "There," he said, pointing at the screen. "It says your test results should be confidential."

"Being interrogated in front of a crowd is not confidential."

"Exactly."

I stared at the screen for a while. At last, I said, "Do you think I could press charges?"

River thought for a moment. "Is that what you want?"

I nodded.

"Then yes. A hundred times over, yes."


	7. Article II Section II—For Heart

So, I took Paterson and Gibson to court, won, and lived happily ever after! The people celebrated, throwing roses and babies alike, screaming my name. . . . They were happy, the country was happy, _I_ was happy—

Okay, no. I did none of that. What _actually _happened was much less heroic:

I chickened out.

Blame me all you want, but I did. To accuse the Directors of the FBI and CIA, the two most influential men in law enforcement, of violating my constitutional rights was ludicrous, desperate, and frankly idiotic. The country did not need that kind of political unrest. _I _didn't need that kind of political unrest. The stress alone . . .

Following my polygraph test, the press practically erupted with excitement. Article after article was written about me, my life, and River. I felt raw and exposed. So many of the things I'd admitted to were supposed to be private. They were things I never wanted anyone to know but myself. And now, the entire country and most likely several parts of the world knew about them in extensive detail.

In order to distract myself from the embarrassment, I locked myself in my office and worked. But the White House's Oval Office never seemed so much like a prison. I felt as if I couldn't leave, lest I'd have to face the judgment of the entire country.

Presently, I was debating the pros and cons of the new Minimum Wage Compromise when there was a knock on the door.

I debated my reply for a moment. At first, I had the childish urge to ask, _Who is it?_ Finally, I settled for simply saying, "Come in."

I needn't have worried. James stepped inside.

"Oh, thank God," I muttered under my breath. Then, at a normal level, "What are you here for—"

My jaw dropped as a second figure strode into the room: McAfee Westbrook.

"McAfee!" I cried, springing to my feet. "I can't believe—what are you doing here?"

She smiled. "James said you needed help."

I raised my brows. "Oh, did he?"

"Yes, I did," James snapped. "And you need help, Payton, don't try to deny it."

"I'm not—" I clamped my jaw shut to prevent myself from shouting. "I'm not denying it. I just—you're right. I need help, McAfee, as much as I can get."

She slowly approached my desk, a quizzical look on her face. "As much as you can get," she repeated.

"Y-yes?"

She sat down in the chair opposite mine, on the other side of the desk. With a confident gaze, her eyes met mine. The look there did not mean good news. _Uh oh,_ I thought.

Her lips curled into a smile. "I have an idea."

* * *

I did not like McAfee's idea. But I also knew that I didn't have a choice.

So, when Penelope Singh, my ex-wife, showed up at my office the very next day, I only sighed in resignation.

"Come in."

Penelope stepped into the room. "Good afternoon, Payton. How have things been?"

"Even if you'd been living in a hole, you'd know how thing have been."

"Fair enough."

I remained at my desk as she stepped further into the room. "So tell me, Payton, why did you call me here?"

I swallowed. "I needed to tell you something."

She raised a single brow but didn't say anything.

"Um . . ." I licked my lips. "I had an idea. Well, not much of an idea and more of a—a plan. And I just—I wanted your approval. Or at least just for you to know."

Penelope raised her brow higher. "Alright. What is this plan?"

I swallowed. My mouth had suddenly gone dry. Why was I nervous? I shouldn't be nervous.

"Um," I said, clearing my throat, "I want to make gay marriage legal. Nationally."

Penelope frowned. "I know. Alice told me, remember?"

I nodded. "I know, I just—I wanted you to understand that—that I'm not doing it for political reasons. I'm doing it for myself and for the people. For the community." My tongue felt heavy with the lie.

Penelope didn't notice. "Well, I wish you luck."

My heart sank slightly as she left, but I didn't let it show. I suppressed a sigh. That'd had as much of a chance of working as the Detroit Lions winning the Super Bowl.

But at the last second, she turned back. "Payton?" she called from the door.

I looked up, trying not to look too hopeful. "Yes?"

"Know that I support you," she said softly. "I think it's a wonderful plan."

I smiled, the weight in my chest lifting. "Thank you."

She nodded and left, for good this time.

For a moment, I simply stared at the door. Then I allowed myself a soft cheer. It worked!

But the weight returned as I thought of the means through which I'd achieved it.

McAfee's plan had been simple: gain the emotional support of Penelope Singh, and hope she got me out of this hellhole I'm trapped in. And while it was a good and overall honest plan, I still felt like I'd used Penelope in some way.

But why? I hadn't lied to her. I really did want to pass the law for myself and for the people. But the reasoning behind it was dishonest. I was using her, I realized, for my own selfish needs.

"Payton."

I blinked and looked up. River was there. Of course River was there. River was always there when I needed his help. I smiled, opening my mouth to ask him a question, but he shook his head.

"Go to Chip," he said.

And then he vanished.

I stared at where he'd disappeared, my jaw dropped. Never, _never_ had River just . . . _disappeared_. He was in my head, for goodness's sake! How was it even physically possible for him to just suddenly be _gone?_

I thought about what he'd said. _Go to Chip._

Well, fine.

The trip to Potbelly's seemed longer than usual. I checked my watch for the fifth time—it was one-thirty. Chip would be off for his lunch break right now. I'd accidentally memorized his schedule weeks ago (having left the office to see him so often, I supposed that was normal). Why should today be any different?

That's why, when I walked in and saw him helping a few costumers at the counter, I almost threw up my hands in exasperation and walked right back out. Of course. The two people that could help me, River and Chip, were either disappearing or working, and I was waist-deep in crap that wouldn't be going away any time soon.

But I didn't walk out. Instead, I gathered my dignity and stood in line, deciding to order a late lunch while I was here.

The line didn't take long; it was one-thirty, anyone in their right mind would have eaten long before now. Less than five minutes had passed before I was standing in front of the counter, awkwardly smiling at Chip.

He grinned. "I'm off in thirty minutes. Think you can wait that long?"

I nodded automatically. "Of course."

"Sweet. Want anything while you wait?"

"Yes, please . . ."

As I quickly filled him in on my order (a roast beef sandwich, chicken pot pie soup, and some vitamin water), I realized I was paying more attention to him than I was to my food. Who cared about food, anyway? Chip never took off his baseball cap.

"Here you go. I'll be out in a minute."

I blinked. Had my food really already come? I smiled and muttered, "Thanks," before turning away, heading to my usual table in the back.

Five minutes later, I wished I had my laptop. Not that I was allowed to fill out confidential government documents in a Potbelly Sandwich Shop, but at least then I may have been able to get _something_ done. Instead, I absentmindedly played _Candy Crush _on my mobile.

Thirty minutes went by at a snail's pace. When Chip was finally allowed to go (Ten minutes after he was supposed to, the cretins. Maybe I should pass a law.), I was almost bouncing up and down in my chair with anticipation. Since when had I become so _expressive?_

"Sorry about that," Chip said, sliding into the chair opposite me.

I shook my head. "It's no bother." It was, but nothing that was Chip's fault.

"So, what did you need?" he asked, leaning back in his chair casually.

I frowned. What was it that I'd come here for again? The last thirty minutes of _Candy Crush_ had effectively distracted me from it. But then I remembered: Penelope. Right.

"I may have possibly used my ex-wife in a calculated political move organized by my high school friends and I, and now feel guilty about it."

Chip blinked. "Interesting. I'm sorry to ask, but how do you think I can help?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Use your therapy skills to help me stop being guilty."

He laughed. "It doesn't work that way, but alright. Um . . . why are you feeling guilty?"

"Because I used my ex-wife!" I cried. Then, with a worried glance around the restaurant, I lowered my voice. "I was being honest, but I _used_ her. I shouldn't've used her."

Chip shook his head. "But that's the _how_, Payton, not the _why_. I'm asking you _why_ you're feeling guilty. Is it Penelope? Do you still care for her? Or is it possibly a hesitance to work with your friends?"

I narrowed my eyes. "That's a misleading question. You're asking the same question with different context, pretending it means the same thing, while getting more information in the process."

Chip grinned. "You asked for this, Payton. You going to play along or what?"

I audibly sighed, but the muscles of the corners of my lips pulled up. "The reason _why_ I feel guilty is . . . Penelope, and how I treated her. I was"—I swallowed—"a terrible husband."

"You feel guilty because you feel like you mistreated her," Chip deduced. "You feel guilty because, after all you've done to her, you are still using her to tend to your own needs. But that's not all, is it, Payton?" He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "What else is there?"

I swallowed, my mouth bone-dry under his intense gaze. Was there more to it? I hadn't thought there was. But with Chip's blue eyes boring into mine, I couldn't say no.

"I, um . . . I was a terrible husband. And I . . . I think . . ." I frowned. "I—I don't think I can find it in myself to be a good husband."

Huh. I hadn't even thought of it, but now as I said it I knew it was entirely true. I had messed things up royally with Alice. I had ignored and taken Penelope for granted. And now I was thirty-seven, divorced, and President of the United States of America. How could I have time to build up a relationship enough to date? Besides, it wasn't like I was the most heartfelt of people. . . . I'd only ever opened up to three people in my life: my mother, a dead high-school crush, and the quirky, optimistic man sitting across me at this very moment.

I looked up at Chip. He was (as always) smiling softly.

"Penelope has forgiven you, Payton," he said.

I stared. "She—she has?"

"Oh, my god, yes." Chip laughed. "It only took me once glance at her in the hospital to know that."

"The hospital—?" I began, but then I realized. Of course. The assassination attempt. Chip came and briefly visited me, then moments later Penelope burst in and kicked out the annoying doctor. I supposed it wouldn't be too surprising for Chip and her to have crossed paths around then sometime.

But Penelope had forgiven me? The knowledge made my heart swell. Penelope had forgiven me. Despite everything I'd done, everything I didn't deserve from her, she'd forgiven me.

Chip, seeing the realization in my expression, changed the subject. "Payton, you have a plan," he began, furrowing his brow. "Now, this is me forgetting to be your pretend therapist, but what do you want do to after you make gay marriage legal?"

"_If_ I make gay marriage legal," I corrected.

He waved me off. "You will. But what then?"

I immediately opened my mouth. I'd already thought about this. "Then I wanted to work on other issues. Police Brutality, for one, and closing the unfair wage gap between men and women and different races, and then working on providing better childcare—I thought I could start a government-funded organization—to help women continue working, and then—"

"Woah, woah." Chip stopped me wave. "Look, man, I'm completely with you, but if you start introducing all those things at the same time people are not going to be happy. They'll call you a 'crazy liberal,' or worse."

I raised my brows. "Am I? A crazy liberal?"

"Kinda?"

The corners of my lips quirked up.

"In any case, you might want to take it a little slow. Start with what you believe is most important and work from there."

I leaned forward. "What do you think is most important?"

"I can't answer that. You have to make your own decision, otherwise it wouldn't be authentic."

I pursed my lips in distaste, leaning back disappointedly. "It's not about not being authentic. It's about taking the people's ideas into account. And isn't my 'crazy liberal' side what the people want?"

"Mostly," Chip amended. "But not the rich white dudes. And especially not the government. Expect them to fight you tooth and nail on all of it."

I sighed. I knew that already, but to hear Chip say it made it seem . . . ubiquitous. As if the ugly stench of oppression had seeped under every doorway, into every house, and infected every person, even the glowing, laughing, and radiant people like Chip.

* * *

Congress had sent me the stupidest law I had ever seen, and I was almost tempted to march down to the Capital building myself and chew them out for their idiocy.

At this point, I was certain they were testing me, wondering just how far I'd go. Until I did what, I had no idea, but there'd been a shift in the amount of respect I'd received since I came out. (I winced slightly; I hated the term.) It was almost imperceptible, but very much there. But no, I reminded myself, the world wasn't against me. No doubt this stupid law was the result of a few stupid senators, nothing more.

But still . . .

The passive-aggressiveness of everything was the worst part of it all. Homophobia, I'd come to realize, was not a bunch of slurs being yelled at me as I walked down the street, nor getting beat up in the school locker rooms. (Although, the White House did not have locker rooms, so perhaps I wasn't one to judge. And I was certainly not proficient in enough sports during my high school days to get beat up in locker rooms.) But it was a bunch of little things. It was walking through the halls and feeling everyone's eyes on my back. It was my ideas being heard but not taken into account, and not being able to tell if it was because my idea sucked or if it were something else. And it was a friend suddenly acting more awkward than usual when around me . . . or better yet, screaming their displeasure in my face and slamming the door behind them.

As President, it also came as a protest demanding my impeachment every other week, but that was unrelated to most of the population. Still, I'm sure you could imagine how it hurt.

Of course, I didn't show it. But it weighed me down. Even with the full support of my friends and my _ex-wife_ by my side. (How had I won the support of my _ex-wife? _That was supposed to be physically impossible, even in normal terms.)

_Through cheating and manipulation,_ a snide voice said in my mind.

_Shut up._

Chip, I realized, was right. Penelope _had_ forgiven me. I'd just been too blind to see it.

I returned to my office, battling another migraine. They came less often now that I'd healed from my gunshot wound, but I was starting to think they were completely separate from the wound itself. Perhaps the stress of the event had been what had triggered them. Now they just wouldn't go away.

I swallowed a few pills of Advil as I made my way to my office. But as I opened the door, a startling sight almost made me choke the pills back up again.

River was standing by my desk.

For a moment I stood there, not processing, but in the next I stormed inside, closing the door behind me and pointing an accusing finger at his form. _"You."_

River smiled serenely. "Hello, Payton."

"What are you doing here?" I snapped, still approaching him angrily. "Why did you go?" I cursed myself for sounding so helpless.

River didn't flinch as I drew myself up within inches of him. "As your acting heart, I had to do my job."

I stared. "You—you're my heart? What—what job?"

But River didn't answer. Infuriating as he was, he disappeared once more.

* * *

James Hardy's funeral was a somber one. Hundreds of people showed up, including me. But since it was a gray, windy day, only his family members and friends were allowed close enough to actually hear what was being said. Still, I felt their range of emotions, wafted over by the wind—a mixture of amusement, nostalgia, and tears.

I hadn't known the member of the Secret Service who'd given his life to protect me—whether it had been intentional or not—but his death still felt like a heavy weight on my shoulders. I hadn't been told the circumstances of his death (though I'd asked several times), which left me to speculate. Had he been standing between me and the assassin? Or was the assassin just a bad shot? If he hadn't taken the fall, would I still be here today?

I didn't know the answers. I didn't know if James Hardy dove in front of me to heroically take the bullet or if he had been running away and just had the misfortune of being hit. Either way, I mourned.

* * *

I was reviewing my daily briefing when there was a knock on the door.

"Come—"

I didn't get to finish; James had already stepped inside.

I furrowed my brows in annoyance. "James, what—"

"Turn on the TV to channel eight," he interrupted. "Trust me."

I did. Suspiciously.

The TV flickered on to WJLA, where a familiar figure stood on a podium. My jaw dropped. _No way—_

I slowly pushed myself out of my chair. "Penelope—?"

It was her. Giving a speech. _Penelope Singh opens up about her ex-husband's disastrous polygraph results, _read the caption.

"—questions were unnecessary, prejudiced, and almost unconstitutional. They were based on presumptuous facts that gave my ex-husband no chance to explain nor defend himself, and should be treated as incomplete evidence," she was saying, tucking her dark, elegantly-curled hair behind her ear.

I stared. "Is she—?"

"Yep," James affirmed. "And doing a good job, too. She already has a hashtag on Twitter."

"The matter at hand is not only unsympathetic to Payton Hobart's civil rights but is also against the United States law. Under the Employee Polygraph Protection Act, the results of a polygraph may not be used to, quote, "discriminate on the basis of the results of a test, or for filing a complaint, or for participating in a proceeding under the Act," unquote. Furthermore, a strict rule of confidentiality surrounds the results of the polygraph test. However, nonconforming to this standard, Payton Hobart was tested before an audience of hundreds of people, including almost the entire White House staff.

"I ask you, how is that confidential? How does that comply with the rights guaranteed to my ex-husband as written by the law? The men who tested him, Harrison Gibson of the CIA and Gavin Paterson of the FBI, were well aware of these rights, yet they chose to ignore them. Let the country look down upon them for their grievances rather than Mr. Hobart's embarrassing high school misdoings. I, Penelope Singh, formally Penelope Hobart, cannot stand by as I watch this display of upmost—"

She continued talking, but James muted the TV. "She's been going on for fifteen minutes, and she doesn't show signs of stopping." He grinned. "Payton, this is a huge win."

I nodded, dumbfounded. "I can't believe—I mean, I'd expected a Tweet, not an entire speech. And how long has it been since I talked to her?" I checked the date. "A day? Two?"

"A day and a half," James replied, a proud smile on his face. "Why'd you ever give her up?"

It was meant as a jibe, but I felt the sting of it. _Because I'm a bad husband,_ I thought about telling him. But I only shook my head. "I don't know."

James's grin widened. "Nice work, Mr. Hobart. We're back in the game."


	8. Article II Section III—For Love

I was pissed off.

Several states had been drafting laws to make same-sex marriage legal—and then revoking them last minute. Or, better yet, they passed them . . . for a week, then decided it was too good of a thing and suddenly retracted the law. It was such a tantalizing thing—like dangling a treat in front of an excited puppy and then getting angry when it whined.

"I'm doing something about this," I snapped at McAfee, who was filling her coffee cup at the machine in the corner of my office.

She sighed. "It will never pass in the House."

McAfee would know; she was the lone representative of Montana.

"I'll issue an executive order."

She raised her brows. "Do you really want to risk the backlash?"

I sighed. "Well, what do you suppose I do?"

"What you always do: rally the people."

"In other words, write another speech."

McAfee smiled but said nothing.

"Fine."

True to my word, I organized a rally. Glen Jackson, the White House Chief of Staff, looked at me weirdly when I told him, but he only nodded and made a note on his clipboard.

I knew why it seemed strange. The last time I'd organized a rally, I'd almost been assassinated.

But I set this knowledge aside as I got to work on my speech. _Security will be tripled, _I told myself. _There will be no casualties this time._

Still, a knot of worry formed in my gut.

However, I soon found out the main problem wasn't my misgivings about the rally. It was the speech itself. I realized this after I sat at my desk, staring unseeingly at a blank piece of paper for thirty minutes straight without writing a single word. I had no idea where to start.

_This is usually about the time when River appears, dramatically telling me what I should do, _I thought bitterly.

But River had apparently slept past his morning alarm clock, because he didn't appear.

I groaned, resisting the urge to tear my fingers through my hair. Why was River refusing to materialize?

_Stubborn moron, _I thought viciously.

_As your acting heart, I had to do my job, _was what I heard in reply. But what did that mean?

Frustrated, I stood and started to pace. If River wasn't going to show himself, fine. I had other avenues for advice. Like Chip.

I smiled. I was hungry for Potbelly's anyway.

I drove myself to the shop. Anxious to get there, I may have been a bit trigger happy with the horn. When I finally pulled up to the store, my jaw dropped.

Potbelly's was _packed_.

Swearing, I sped my vehicle up, managing to find a parking space a few blocks away. From there, I walked to the shop.

A few people gaped at me as I made my way down the sidewalk, but I ignored them. My eyes were darting around fervently. It was highly dangerous for the President of the United States to be casually walking down the street, unprotected by their Secret Service. But even I hadn't planned to come here. How could someone think to attempt an assassination on my life with no warning?

That didn't stop me from checking every alley as I passed it.

Potbelly's was mayhem. When I walked in the restaurant, I realized why: a school group had entered, stretching the line almost back to the door. A few grumpy customers were scattered amongst the children, anxiously checking their watches and glaring at any student who dared come too close.

I cast my eyes to the counter; Chip was there, quickly and efficiently taking the students' orders. I bit my lip and made my way toward him. Now was obviously not the time for idle chit-chat, but perhaps I could schedule some other time to see him—?

I got to the counter. Chip glanced up, then did a double take. He grinned.

"Little tied up right now, sorry," he told me, jotting down yet another student's order.

I raised a single brow. "I can see that."

The students stared at me with wide eyes. I pretended not to notice.

"Here." Chip passed me a piece of paper and a pen. "Write this number down."

Between listening for the next order and jotting it down on the register, he gave me a series of numbers.

"Call me," he said.

I nodded, placing the pen back in the cup it had been stored in. "I will."

I left then, but not before patting his hand—which was resting on the counter—gently. He gave me a small smile before returning his full attention to the students.

As I walked away, a spark of affection lit up near my heart. It never failed to amaze me just how generous Chip was. Here we were—an insanely busy day at work, and he still found time to help me.

I should be giving him something in return.

My infatuating happiness didn't falter, not even when one student interrupted my thoughts with a cry of attention.

"Mr. President, sir!" he called, taking a few steps toward me from the other side of the rope that separated the seats from the line to the register.

I stopped, raising my brows. One glance at this boy told me everything I needed to know about him; he wore ripped jeans, an oversized leather jacket, and a neon yellow shirt with a skull on it. He even had a slitted eyebrow. His fashion sense wasn't exactly subtle. "Yes?"

"I don't mean to insult you, sir," he said, "but you know gays go to Hell, right?"

I blinked. Around us, students turned to watch. "I'm sorry?"

"It's true," he said, nodding. "The Bible says it."

I narrowed my eyes at the boy. Somewhere, deep down, I knew I should feel tremendously insulted, but the warmth near my heart refused to be quenched. I was the _President_ of the United States of America. This stupid mass of fat, hair, and bone wasn't enough to take me down!

Perhaps it was the strange adrenaline coursing through my body, but I ran a quizzical eye over his face and retorted, "If I'm going to Hell, I'm certainly going to take that eyebrow with me."

There was a resounding _oooooh_ from the surrounding students. The boy's jaw dropped.

"I—I don't—" he sputtered.

I didn't wait for him to gather his thoughts. I strode from the shop, Chip's number clutched in my hand and the same, strange warmth lightening my step.

* * *

I called Chip around the time I knew he got off, and we organized to meet at Rochambeau statue at seven. Until then, I was forced to sit at my desk and write my speech.

An hour passed, and I had written only two words: _For love—_

It was insanely pitiful.

Thankfully, I was interrupted by a knock at my door.

"Come in."

The door opened. My heart stopped.

It was Alice.

"Payton," she said, looking at me.

I stood. "A-Alice."

"I wanted to talk to you." She took a step forward.

I nodded, my mind racing. Why was she here? What did she want to talk about? _Whatever it is, I'm going to mess things up, I know it—_

"In light of things, Payton," she began, "I think I should return to my cousin."

I gaped. "W-What?"

"I think it's best. For both of us."

I swallowed. My mouth was suddenly dry. I shook my head vigorously. "No. No, no, no. Alice—Alice, I made a mistake—"

"And you think that means I should fall to your feet, begging for you to take me back?" she snapped, raising her chin.

"No!" I cried. "No, not at all—"

"Then what, Payton?"

There was a fire raging in her eyes. I took a deep breath.

"I _mean_, please don't let my stupidity make you think of false assumptions. You don't have to forgive me!" I added quickly, as she opened her mouth in anger. "But know that I still care for you, Alice. I always have."

She gave me a cold look. "I'm never going to be your girlfriend again, Payton. You sealed that when I left."

I nodded. "I know."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you? Do you _really_ know?"

I didn't answer.

"Payton," she snapped, "I told you I was leaving, and you immediately jumped to conclusions. I thought you were just irritated because you would miss me, but then you never called, never emailed, never even texted. You didn't care!" She looked down. Lowering her voice dramatically, she said, "I knew it was over then. In that moment, I realized your irritation was a break-up, and a true one this time."

My face burned. I looked down as well. "I'm sorry."

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Alice shifted, but I didn't look up. I continued staring at my feet, hiding the shame and embarrassment on my cheeks.

"Goodbye, Payton."

I still didn't raise my head, not until long after I heard the door close behind her.

* * *

At seven o'clock, I met Chip. My only thought was of Alice. I knew I should also solve the problem of my speech, but I decided that was a job for my executive.

"I made a horrible mistake, and now I'm paying the consequences," I said as a way of greeting.

Chip's smile wavered. He furrowed his brow. "Let's . . . sit down."

He led me to a nearby bench. We sat down, watching for a moment a family walk by. They were chatting aimlessly.

The park was mostly empty at this time. As I looked, I saw a random jogger, two young women dragging suitcases behind them, and a few homeless men scattered about. Besides them, it was quiet.

I looked at the homeless men. I felt responsible for them, as if I'd caused their homelessness. In a way, I had. But economics, I'd realized, was a lot bigger than taking a wad of cash and handing to someone in need. If only it wasn't.

"What happened, Payton?" Chip asked finally.

I bit my lip. "Alice, my . . . old girlfriend. I think I've ruined everything between us."

Chip furrowed his brows. "You mean . . . you still love her?"

I shook my head. "No. No, I ruined that when she left."

I thought I saw a flash of relief in Chip's eyes, but it was gone in an instant. I must have imagined it.

"She left?" he asked.

"She was visiting a cousin. I thought she was leaving me for a new boyfriend. She thought I was angry because I would miss her. We didn't find out the truth until almost a year later."

"Oh," Chip breathed. "That . . . there's no solution for that, Payton."

I hung my head. I knew that already.

"But you can move on. You can heal."

I didn't reply.

"Payton," Chip said, touching my shoulder lightly. I leaned into his touch.

"You'll be alright, Payton."

I would be alright, someday. But for now, I was happy to sit here, with Chip's hand on my shoulder, in a quiet, undisturbed park.

There was a snap of a twig behind us, and the sound of someone walking. I ignored it, but Chip turned. He drew in a puff of air in surprise.

At this, I looked up. "What?" I asked quietly.

He continued staring at something behind us.

I turned. My heart stopped.

There, on the path snaking its way through the park, shadowed by the trees, was a man. But even in the receding light, there was no mistaking who he was.

"Raymond," I murmured.

He stared at us. From this far away, I couldn't see his expression. But then I distinctly saw him smile.

He turned and left, heading back to the White House, leaving Chip and I on the bench, dread pooling in my gut.

* * *

When I, too, returned to the White House, I was met by a familiar face.

"Skye?" I gasped disbelievingly.

"The one and only," she replied.

She looked almost exactly the same as she had in high school, only she'd changed her hair. It was now shaved at the sides, coming together at the top in a small, curly afro. It suited her.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

She put her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. "I heard you needed a speaker. I'm here for that."

I knitted my brows. "Who told you that?"

"James, of course."

Of course. I felt a rush of affection for my friend.

"Do you think you could write a speech, too?" I asked Skye.

She smirked. "Can't do it on your own?"

"It's not that I _can't,_" I said defensively. "I just don't know where to start."

"Better explain everything from the beginning, then," she replied.

* * *

The date of my rally came, and I stepped upon the podium. The crowd cheered.

"Thank you!" I called. "Thank you!"

The crowd died down. Surrounding them in a formidable ring was the Secret Service, patrolling the area. _Triple the security,_ I thought to myself, calming my pounding heart.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today I have a very special guest I'd like to introduce to you all," I said. "I first met her back in high school, and we've stayed close friends ever since. Even in her high school years, she was never afraid to speak her mind. That hasn't changed one bit to this day.

"She's spent several days researching, writing, and preparing for this moment. She's an avid writer, actress, and activist. Everyone, please give it up for Skye Leighton!"

There was a polite cheer from the crowd as Skye walked onstage. I smiled at her as she passed. She glared back.

"Actress?" she snapped under her breath.

"I had to add something!"

She gave me one last withering look before turning to the crowd, wiping her expression clean and flashing the crowd a brilliant smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her smile fading instantly, "recently, it has come to my attention that several states have been dangling the possibility of same-sex marriage being legalized inside their borders—only to be snatched away at the very last second through repeals and delays. This is a matter of absolute cruelty at its finest. It is like, in the words of our President, 'dangling a treat in front of an excited puppy and then getting angry when it whines.'"

Skye paused to let the information sink in. The crowd cheered.

"The people of the LGBT community struggle enough as it is, without rotten politicians teasing them with possibilities they know they won't allow!" she continued. "This should be a matter of public outcry! No person should overlook this, whether they be for or against same-sex marriage! The tyranny and oppression of the Supreme Court's actions should anger every American!

"For good, for Americans, and for love. That is why we should stand. That is why we _must_ stand! For good, for Americans, and for love!"

Skye had barely begun her speech, but the crowd was already hooked.

I allowed myself a small smile.

* * *

Only three months later, the Supreme Court made its decision. (This, in the Supreme Court's eyes, was a record time.) It refused the appeals of several states—Indiana, Oklahoma, Utah, Virginia, and Wisconsin—and paved the way for same-sex marriage to be legalized in six others—Colorado, Kansas, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Utah, and Wyoming. All in all, eleven states had been basically forced to pass laws allowing same-sex marriage. It was the biggest win since the repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act.

McAfee had even more good news a month later: representatives had begun changing their votes to support their cause.

"A third of the House approves of same-sex marriage," she told me. "Another third is undecided. The House could be won, easily."

"They just need one more push," I muttered, my mind racing.

McAfee nodded. "Exactly."

"Another speech?"

"It's worked so far."

I bit my lip. "What about the Senate?"

She shrugged. "Likely similar to the House. We need one more thing to convince them, Payton. That's all."

I nodded in understanding. It looked like I needed to call Infinity.

"Now?" Infinity cried from the other end of the phone.

"Yes, please."

"Payton, I thought you said—"

"I've sorted everything out with your boss already."

"I—really?"

"Yes." I paused. "Please, just come. Everything's been sorted out. You'll get a private jet, a five-star hotel—"

"Why do you need me?" she interrupted. "What is so important that I have to come _now_?"

"I want to work with you on something. . . . I think it would be a tipping point for voters."

"Using me as your lackey?"

"No! You won't be working _for_ me. We'd work together, I swear it."

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, Infinity sighed. "Fine. How long will I be staying?"

Relief rushed through my bones. "At least a month. Longer if you want to."

"Okay."

"And Infinity? Thank you." I meant it.

"You're welcome, Payton," she said. "This better be worth it."

"It will be. I promise."

"Bye."

"Goodbye, Infinity."

I hung up, grinning. It looked like things were finally looking up.

* * *

I should have known my good mood would be short-lived.

"President Hobart," came a voice at my door.

I looked up. Thomas Sampson, my Vice President, stood in my doorway. He didn't look happy.

"What is it?" I asked, wary of his response.

He licked his lips. "Raymond."

My heart stopped. "What's he saying."

It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

Sampson stared at me but didn't answer. I waited, tapping my foot impatiently.

At last, he asked, "Payton, do you know a man named Charles Goodman?"

I frowned. "I don't think—"

Then it hit me. My expression cleared. "Chip."

Charles Goodman. I'd never known his real name until then. Even his employee name tag simply had "Chip" written on it.

"Yes," I breathed. "I know him."

Sampson nodded. "Mr. Hobart, are you currently in a romantic relationship with Charles?"

My head snapped up. Now I was confused. "What? No."

Sampson shook his head. "Raymond's saying you are."

"Publicly?" I cried.

He nodded.

"Raymond's an ass," I snapped, standing from my desk chair.

Sampson raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. He's been an ass ever since . . ." I trailed off.

Sampson seemed to know what I meant. "Oh."

I sighed. "I'm sorry. Excuse my language."

"It's fine. I understand."

I met his eyes. The look in them seemed sympathetic enough.

"Thank you," I muttered faintly.

There was a silence between us. At last, I asked, "What exactly is Raymond saying?"

"That you and Charles are in a secret relationship. That your ex-wife's jealousy of him and you is the reason for your divorce."

White-hot anger shot through my veins. "He—he wouldn't do that—"

"He is."

I began to pace behind my desk. Sampson eyed me warily.

"Is it true?" he asked me.

"Of course not," I hissed defensively.

Sampson nodded. "Then I'm sorry."

I stopped pacing, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yes. Really."

There was a pause as I contemplated his words.

"I believe you, Mr. Hobart."

I swallowed. "Thank you," I murmured again.

He smiled. "The issue is easily resolved. You will recover from it."

I nodded, but I didn't believe him.


	9. Article II Section IV—For River

I didn't think Raymond understood the profound impact of his actions.

I frantically texted Chip, aware that I was spamming him with messages, but I didn't care. I didn't care if he was busy, or working, or at his mother's deathbed, I had to see a reply. _Now_.

After thirty messages, he finally replied. _Meet me at Rochambeau at 8:00._

I arrived thirty minutes early.

I shouldn't have. I really shouldn't have. I should have done something to occupy my time such as scheduling a call, or reviewing a law, or attending a cabinet meeting, but instead I spent thirty minutes in rapidly falling temperatures as the sun went down, doing nothing but sit on a bench by the statue and anxiously watch the time as eight o'clock came steadily closer, minute by minute.

When the time came and went and Chip wasn't there, my heart fell. I should have known. Raymond had not only set back politics, but he'd ruined the relationship I'd had with a very dear friend.

I stood, a heavy weight settling somewhere inside me. It wasn't as if I hadn't expected it. I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that it was a possibility. Chip had made his decision. I could respect it.

I kept my eyes on my feet as I walked back toward the White House. I was halfway across the park when I heard someone cry, "Wait!"

I froze, relief spreading through my chest. I looked up, my face breaking out into a suppressed grin.

Chip was running toward me, an apologetic grimace donning his face. "I'm sorry, I was held back by my boss."

I shook my head vigorously. "No, I— " I looked down. "I thought you weren't going to come." My voice was small, barely audible.

There was a silence above. Finally, Chip said, "Follow me."

I slowly looked up, meeting him in the eye. He was smiling. How was he always smiling?

He turned and walked the other way, leaving me to trail after him. He led me across the park, through a field, and to one, particularly shadowed tree, positioned in a way that allowed some amount of privacy.

He sat down and I followed suit, leaning my back against the trunk.

We sat in silence for a long while. I watched a group of burly, heavily tattooed biker men pass, trying to ignore the dread pooling in my gut—and the fact that Chip was so close, his arm brushed against mine.

_I should say something,_ I realized. _I really should say something._

But something had lodged in my throat.

"So," I began (I ignored the way my voice trembled), "Charles Goodman?"

Chip laughed. "Yep. But I haven't been called 'Charles' in years."

"It—It suits you. Especially 'Goodman'. You're a good man," I muttered lamely.

"Thanks."

We lapsed into silence once more. The awkwardness in the air was palpable. Instead of making me sad, I felt a surge of anger toward Raymond. I'd never hated the man more than I did now.

I stood abruptly, startling Chip, but I didn't care. I started to pace.

"I'll never forgive him," I hissed, kicking a stick in childish anger. "Never! Politics is one thing, but _this—_"

"Woah, Payton, calm down," Chip said, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. "I'm not angry at you. Or him. In fact, I hardly care."

This made me pause. "You—You're don't?"

He shook his head, giving me a sheepish smile.

I stared. "W-Why?"

He shrugged. "Because . . . well." He sighed. "Sit down."

I did, watching him curiously as I did so.

He turned to me. "Payton, I'm going to be one hundred percent honest with you: _I do not care. _One thing I've learned about politics is that the small things rarely last. And Raymond, no matter how hard he tries to convince everyone otherwise, made a small, weak, _desperate_ move." Chip looked me directly in the eye. "You're winning, Payton, and he knows it."

I stared at him, open-mouthed. "I—I'm winning?"

Chip nodded. "Definitely."

Suddenly, my mind was racing with different political moves and strategies. Could it be possible that I was truly winning? What did I need to do to convince the Supreme Court? They were in charge of overturning the cases against same-sex marriage. Did they only need one final push?

_One final push. _In the end, it always seemed to come to that. _One final push._

The House of Representatives and the Senate were both pretty evenly divided between Democrats and Republicans. Only by a few, in both chambers, were the Republicans a majority. But if I could convince them to vote in favor . . . and if all Democrats voted in favor, too . . .

McAfee had reported votes had been swaying in the House. If that was true, I could only hope the same applied in the Senate. And if _that_ was true . . .

A same-sex marriage law could be passed.

As for the Supreme Court . . . they would have to be pressured, I decided. Pressured by the public, by the other two branches. . . . If I could get the Legislative Branch and the public to rally against them, it might be enough to change their minds.

Undiluted joy spread through my chest. Could this be? Did I actually have a shot at this? If I did . . . I could hardly imagine what it would mean if I did.

I looked at Chip with sparkling eyes. But then I frowned. Chip did so much for me. . . . Have I ever given him something in return?

"I should pay you for this," I said, quickly rummaging through my pockets. I _had_ to have some cash on me.

Chip help up his hands defensively. "Oh, no. It's fine."

I shook my head, still searching my pockets. "It isn't. You've done so much for me, and I—let me pay you. It's the least I can do."

"Payton, really."

I shook my head. "I have to, " I insisted.

"Payton—"

I ignored him, now searching my jacket. Maybe I would have cash there—

Before I could, however, Chip grabbed my wrists. I snapped my gaze up to his.

"It's fine, Payton," he repeated. "I don't need you to pay me."

I tugged at his grasp. "Chip—"

"Payton, it's _fine,_" he repeated.

And then he kissed me.

It was brief, only the faintest brush of the lips, but it was enough to make my heart stop and my eyes—after I got over my initial shock—flutter closed. His lips were soft and warm. His hands—still wrapped around my wrists—made gentle circle movements against my skin. He smelled of Potbelly's and mint and something like—hot chocolate?

Whatever it was, I loved it.

Soon, too soon, he leaned back.

_His eyes are really blue,_ I realized with a sort of dazed wonder. _Blue, not like the sky, but like his eyes hold the universe itself._

He smiled at me, and I smiled back.

Who cared about Raymond's small, weak, desperate move anyway?

* * *

_One more push._

I'd confirmed it with McAfee; that was all it would take. _One more push._

I kept this in mind as I sent a letter to the Supreme Court. I continued to keep it in mind while I worked with Infinity to write a draft for a speech. Outside, my Chief of Staff Glen Jackson turned anxious officials away. _The President's busy right now. The President cannot meet with you at this time. The President will tend to those matters tomorrow._

Within hours, we had the first draft written.

Within another two, we had polished it.

I invited Thomas Sampson in to review it. His eyes teared up halfway through.

"It's beautiful," my Vice President said. "Keep it just the way it is."

My letter to the Supreme Court gained national attention. _I implore you to think of not just the impact in America, _I wrote,_ but also in the world. The story of this historic moment will be told for centuries to come, and you, the members of House, could be its heroes._

McAfee's judgement didn't fail me. With the support of more than half of Congress, the Supreme Court wrote back its reply:

_We will consider it._

Months passed. As the day to vote came nearer and nearer, protests emerged from either side. _Re-Christianize the Sinners,_ cried some, while others preached _"love is love."_

_One more push._

Infinity came back to America when I asked, and we reviewed the speech one last time before I scheduled a rally to take place right on the White House lawn, where we would either make history or go home disappointed.

"You'll do amazing," I told her before she went onstage.

Infinity blushed. "Thanks."

I smiled, something I'd been doing much more often recently. Perhaps it was something to do with Chip. His happiness was infectious.

Maybe, if we did this right, I wouldn't have to sneak around to see him.

Infinity walked onstage to the cheers and roars of the crowd. Peering between the curtains, I could see hundreds of people assembled, screaming and brandishing posters and other assorted merchandise.

"Thank you!" Infinity called into the mic.

I smiled and turned to the TV screen behind the curtain, which depicted an image of Infinity on a raised platform, looking out at the crowd.

"Thank you," she began. "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Infinity Jackson. I graduated with a Master's in Computer Science from UCLA and attended high school with Payton Hobart, President of the United States, at Saint Sebastian."

The crowd gave a polite cheer. Infinity laughed almost like a giggle, innocent and sweet. "Thank you!"

This only made the crowd cheer more. I smiled. This was why Infinity needed to give this speech, not me. She was such a likable person; it would be hard to disrespect her.

Slowly, the crowd died down. Infinity took a deep breath.

"Liberty."

The crowd fell silent as she spoke, the single word echoing across the yard. _Liberty._

"We all think we know what it means," she continued. "_Liberty_ is the word the Founding Fathers based the creation of the United States Government upon. _Liberty_ is the name of the symbol of America's freedom: Lady Liberty. _Liberty_ is patriotism, it is life, and it is the very essence and soul of every American. And yet, it seems as though each American is lost in ignorant bliss as to the true meaning of the word _liberty_."

She looked up, her eyes sweeping over the crowd. "Every one of us knows its definition. But we don't know what it _means_. And for that reason, we lost control. We lost control over things that should have been easily controlled. Control over our government and the decisions they make, the actions they take, and the laws they pass.

"But sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, it's the _absence_ of a law causes that same loss of control. That's what is happening in America right now—an absence of a crucial law is bringing about a loss of control over things that should be easily resolved, but due to a lack of _liberty_, liberty is infringed upon even more."

Infinity paused, examining her notes before she continued.

"There is _one group_ of individuals who are at the root of this loss of liberty. There is only _one group,_ I repeat, that is directly responsible for this lack of control. One group, and that is the United States Supreme Court."

A wave of shock swept through the crowd, and excited muttering quickly broke out amongst its members. I smiled slightly. This was exactly what we'd hoped for.

"The Supreme Court has its flaws. It would be inhuman if they didn't. But, as I have witnessed firsthand in my many months assisting the Executive Branch of the United States Government, I have seen President Hobart working tirelessly, day and night, to quell the root of this loss of liberty and justice, and secure the blessings of freedom to the people of America."

The crowd broke out into a cheer. I nodded absently. Infinity was doing well, and the crowd was lapping up her every word. _One more push._

Over the noise, Infinity cried, "Through repeals and delays and unfair jurisdiction, the Supreme Court has managed to convince a vast majority of highly educated men and women that it despises the LGBT people, and those men and women are correct!" The crowd cheered louder. "They are correct!"

"President Hobart and his administration, as well as you, the people, have given the Supreme Court every chance to justify the way they do justice, every chance to prove us wrong; that their actions are more than just desperate attempts to delay the inevitable out of spite. Yet they continue to hate and discriminate and renounce liberty, the very thing they swore to protect with every inch of their being. The Constitution protects the freedom of the people, yet now the Supreme Court ignores many in favor of a few. I, for one, cannot and will not endorse this magnitude of dishonesty and rotten policies. I, as a natural born citizen of the United States, cannot and will not stand by as I watch prejudice and hate tear my country apart."

The crowd cheered, but it was slightly thin. I knew what they were thinking. Why insult the government in a government-issued rally? Where was the President? And what were Infinity's credentials?

Luckily, we had prepared for that.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am one of you," Infinity said, softening her voice considerably. "I am a person, a human being, and I am no politician," she chuckled. The crowd laughed. "I am not a politician, and I will not pretend to be a politician. But a violation of liberty is a violation against the people, no matter their race, religion, gender, sexuality, or socioeconomic status. It is protected by our Constitution—by our natural born rights—and we, the people of this proud nation, can stand against injustice, oppression, and _wrong_. We stand for what is right."

The crowd cheered. Infinity smiled. "Thank you. Thank you."

As she spoke, I turned away and smoothed down my suit. "You ready, sir?" a crew member asked.

I nodded, biting my lip with nerves.

"But as I said," I heard Infinity call, "I am no politician. Which is why I present to you President Hobart!"

When I walked onstage, my stomach was doing several flips, but I lifted my chin and plastered a giant smile on my face. The crowd roared as I crossed the stage, formally shaking Infinity's hand before more casually patting her on the back, leaning forward and speaking in her ear.

"Nice job," I told her.

She pulled back, smiling and nodding, and left the stage. I turned to the cheering crowd, taking a deep breath.

_This may be a disaster, or it may make history. But it's no different than any other speech, _I told myself. _Deep breaths._

_Let's do a breathing exercise. Four breaths in, four breaths out, _said River. _One._

I closed my eyes. _Two._

The crowd's cheering was fading. _Three._

I opened my eyes. River was standing at the back of the crowd, smiling.

_Four._

"Thank you!" I called. "Thank you!"

Slowly, the crowd died down. I took one last deep breath before I began.

"There are some people who leave a lasting impact on us, even long after they have gone. They are this country's mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers and they are your greatest, most loyal friends—but they are not their own. This, I know from experience."

The crowd was still and silent. They seemed to have grasped the solemnness in my tone. I carried on:

"When I was attending high school, I was like all other high schoolers: young, dumb, and inexperienced. I say this not to insult this nation's young population, for they have great, inspired ideas, but rather to emphasize what is and what will always be my greatest mistake.

"When I ran for high school class president, I concentrated on nothing but my own goals. I didn't care who I had to beat, what debates I had to win, only that I won. But I made a terrible decision during this time, one that claimed the life of someone very dear to me."

I swallowed. I did not like this next part. I wanted to forget my Polygraph test, pretend it never happened, but I knew it was imperative that I mention it. I forced myself to continue.

"I'm sure you have all drawn your own conclusions from the Polygraph test I was ordered to take many months ago. And I would like to say, Harrison Gibson of the Central Intelligence Agency and Gavin Paterson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were correct. I killed River Barkley, and although he may have pulled the trigger, I was the root cause for his death."

The crowd shifted. Some shook their heads. I plunged on.

"It is due to my error that I lost a friend, an ally, and yes"—I looked directly at the cameras rolling in my direction—"a lover. I cared deeply for the kind, thoughtful, impeccable soul named River Barkley, and I, in my selfishness and in my oblivion, managed to become a leading cause of his suicide.

"River was a loyal friend to everyone but himself. I didn't know this at the time, and I ignored the obvious signs of his depression. That was my greatest, most fatal mistake, and it was a direct cause of River's death. But, despite how much I'd wronged him, River never disliked me, and in fact he greatly inspired me. He helped me through my darkest moments, overcome my deepest fears. He left behind a legacy, and I cannot allow him to be forgotten."

I looked up to see him, again in the back of the crowd, smiling. He lowered his head as if to say, _Go on._

"No union is more profound than marriage," I called, "for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. I cannot ignore that the sanctioned right of the greatest bond formed between people is prohibited to some Americans with no basis of fact, evidence, or other knowledge supporting this ban. To disrespect the members of the LGBT community is to disrespect marriage. It is to disrespect the love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family they have created with another, whom they love, cherish, and value beyond all others, just the same as one man and woman would do. This unconstitutional absence of liberty, justice, and value of love shall not and will no longer be supported by the people, states, and the Government of the United States of America. I vowed to protect the Constitution when I took office, and I will heed that promise by securing the freedom to love. For liberty, for justice, and for River Barkley, the greatest man I ever knew. For River!"

The crowd erupted. They shouted, jumped, cried—you name it. Some hugged, others sank to their knees, and a few more looked to be praying. Whatever the case, it was a win.

"Thank you!" I cried to the crowd, but it was lost in the tumultuous cheers.

I waited for the crowd to calm, but it didn't. Eventually, a crew member signaled for me to leave the stage. I smiled and waved as I did, but hardly anyone payed attention.

_One more push._

In the back of the crowd, just before I ducked behind the curtain, I spotted River. He disappeared with one, final smile.

I never saw him again.

* * *

The year was twenty fifteen, the day July twenty-sixth, and the Supreme Court had made its decision:

_"No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. . . . It would misunderstand these men and women to say they disrespect the idea of marriage. . . . They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law. The Constitution grants them that right."_

_We did it,_ I thought, watching the procession of people marching down Washington DC's streets, singing and dancing and smiling_,_ rainbow flags waving as far as the eye could see. It was like this all over the country. _One more push. For River._

_We won._

* * *

**Fun fact about this story: the pairing between Chip and Payton was completely by accident.**

**Yeah . . . my bad. It had been my original plan to have Payton and Alice get back together, but then I realized as I was writing some Chip and Payton dialogue that they were really gay. Like, _really_ gay. And as I looked back at all my previous writing of Payton and Chip, I realized that crap, they have _always_ been _really_ gay. Like, bordering queer-baiting gay. So I had to quick rearrange a large portion of my story because _I could not become a queer-baiter._**

**Anyway, thank me and my absolutely terrible recognition of romance, because without it Payton and Chip would never have happened.**

**With that being said, thank you so much for reading! I'm sorry for any mistakes I may have made in the way government works. I'm no politician. I think my main problem was figuring out everyone's roles and what they did for the country. Anyway, sorry about those!**

**Also, I will not pretend my speeches were actually eloquently written. Just pretend they were, shed a few fake tears, and continue reading. Also, yes, in real life they would be much longer—I'm just too lazy to write that much.**

**Special shout out to my returning readers and everyone who voted. Hope you enjoyed!**


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